


everyone must breathe until their dying breath

by pocky_slash



Series: Team Shithead [17]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Anxiety Disorder, Blow Jobs, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Drinking to Cope, Established Relationship, Fist Fights, Graduate School, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Moving In Together, Plans For The Future, Self-Destructive Behavior, Suicidal Recklessness, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-02-05 07:32:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 149,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: It's the summer after the gang's first year of grad school and Lafayette is off to France, Hercules is off to parts unknown, and John and Alex are moving into their own apartment. With three months on their own and few obligations, they're looking forward to spending their days studying ghosts, working on their own projects, and being disgustingly in love. And that's certainly how the summer starts--hanging out with Molly, going to baseball games, having lunch with Alex's foster brother, and going on trips with von Steuben and his harem fill the first few weeks of summer, a steady stream of fun to distract them from the rest of the world.But the world has a way of getting in, and after John drops sharply into a deep depression, Alex is left to try and figure out what's wrong with him and why it hit him so suddenly. With their friends thousands of miles away and John alternating between refusing to get out of bed and putting himself in mortal danger, Alex struggles to get to the bottom of John's trauma before he hurts himself or worse.(AKA everyone has a shitty summer)





	1. Prologue: Memorial Day

**Author's Note:**

> First off, hi, wow, thank you for sticking with this series for so long, folks!
> 
> Secondly, I'm terribly sorry that it took me so long to finish this. I know I said "end of the summer" and now we're in November, but life has not been great to me in 2017 (nor has it been great to most of us, I think) and getting through parts of this has been a struggle.
> 
> Here's how this is gonna go: this story is separated into two parts and each part is made up of several chapters. Part One is finished! So I'm going to start posting it one chapter per week (or maybe two?) in the hopes that Part Two will be finished by the time it's done. There's not too much more left to go on Part Two and Part One is long enough that it should take us through into 2018, so fingers crossed, there hopefully won't be a break between the two parts.
> 
> ADDITIONALLY, the tags on this story are pretty dark. Part One is 99% fluff--there are a couple petty arguments, but most of it is John and Alex being dumbasses in love. Part Two gets heavy, and as we get into those chapters, I'll post specific warnings, but the tags should give you a good idea of what to expect. I like to think that this isn't excessively, out of character-ly angsty, but as I'm sure you've noticed, John's got Some Shit that he's been picking at over the course of the series so far and this is where it comes to a head.
> 
> I will swear to you that this story has a happy ending, or at least not a tragic one--these issues aren't magically solved by the end, but everyone is alive and more-or-less unharmed and starting towards the road to recovery.
> 
> Finally, HUGE THANK YOU to my beta-readers!! This is an enormously intimidating job because I'm a scatterbrained nut and this is a lot of words. I will continue to sing their praises throughout, for serious.
> 
> Again, thank you all for sticking around and I hope you enjoy! (Also, if you use emojis in your notes, it deletes everything that comes after the emoji. Just. FYI.)

John thinks Molly is talking to him, but it's hard to pay attention to anyone when the world's best dog is rolling around in the grass asking for pets. Alex once accused him of loving Nelson more than he loves Alex, and while that's not _strictly_ true, his love for Nelson is certainly a lot simpler.

"Are you even listening to me?" Molly asks.

"Yes," John half-lies, "but I don't know what you expect me to say. Maggie is, I guess, objectively physically attractive, but it's not something my gay ass spends a lot of time ruminating on."

"Given the options presented by the people at this party, you're my best choice," Molly says. "I'm not talking to any of the straights about it and Jamika always just rolls her eyes and tells me to suck it up and ask her out."

"Jamika's not wrong," John says. "And Alex wouldn't be gross about it." He rubs Nelson's stomach vigorously and laughs when he jumps up again to rub his body against John's.

"Alex would find some way to turn the conversation into how cute your hair is or something," Molly says. "You two are gross. Is your honeymoon period ever going to be over?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." This time it's a full lie. And probably incredibly obvious if the way his ears are heating up is any indication. He buries his face in Nelson's fur, rubbing his sides vigorously in the world's worst attempt at deflection.

"I'm not gonna hand you this food if you're sitting on the ground with that dog."

Any illusion of chill he may have been trying to project to Molly is probably dissolved when John's gaze immediately snaps upwards, a goofy grin on his face. Oh well, it's not like Molly was fooled.

Alex is standing over them with two plates of Mrs. W's chocolate whipped cream cake. The dopey smile on his face is a good match for John's, and Molly groans and flops over onto her back dramatically. Nelson abandons John to investigate her sprawl, and John uses that as an excuse to push himself to his feet and collect his cake.

"You're covered with doghair." Alex wrinkles his nose because Alex is a snob. "You're lucky I like your face so much."

"Yup," John says. He drapes his arms over Alex's shoulders and grins. They're close enough that their noses are almost touching. "Let's go eat cake."

"Gross!" Molly calls after them as they head over towards some empty chairs by the pool. John takes a piece of cake with one hand and cheerfully flips her off with the other before tucking it around Alex's waist.

It's the end of May, which means that he and Alex have now been together for nine months, give or take. It's technically the longest relationship that John has ever been in, though he and Francis were fooling around for almost two years in secret back in Geneva. And, god, this is so much better. The sneaking around in secret held a certain amount of appeal to John when he was sixteen--the giddiness of having something wholly private, something only he and Francis and Mattie knew about. He was open about the guys who came before and after Francis, but he also didn't like very many of them that much. He didn't trust them. He didn't let them know him.

Alex is so, so different. Nine months and sometimes he still feels like he's twelve and has his first crush, embarrassed by how much he _likes_ Alex, how charmed he is by all the stupid little things that Alex does, how happy he is to see Alex first thing in the morning and at the end of the day and all of the times in between. Molly wasn't wrong about their extended honeymoon period, but, fuck, it's been nine whole months. Maybe this isn't a honeymoon period. Maybe this is just how John really feels about Alex. Maybe this is just how John will always feel about Alex.

It's scary because it's so _much_. He has a hard enough time wrangling his feelings on a good day, the ins and outs of being alive. All of this additional stuff--the depth and intensity of it--is suffocating sometimes. Not because of anything Alex says or does, but because John doesn't know how to process it. It overwhelms him. He needs to remind himself to stay calm, to breathe, to trust Alex to have his back. To trust Alex to love him.

Fuck. There are days when things are bad, when John is malingering, when he's stuck in the past, that knowing Alex loves him is the only thing he can be sure of. It's the only thing he can rely on. It's the only thing he can trust. 

It's unhealthy, probably. All of their friends have been telling them how unhealthy it is since that very first week they spent together. But John's mental health toolbox is not particularly well stocked and Alex doesn't seem to mind the degree to which John sometimes has to lean on him.

"You're quiet," Alex says, swinging his legs up so he can rest his feet in John's lap.

"Thinking," John says. They're eating their cake in lawn chairs by the pool. John wouldn't mind joining Laf and Jamika in the water, but Alex is staunchly against swimming for some unknown reason and John is feeling sentimental.

("You grew up on an island!" John had insisted. "How can you not swim?"

"I know _how_ to swim," Alex said. "I just _prefer not to_. There's...sand and water and it gets everywhere and you get sunburned--"

"You're _Latino_."

"Latinos can get sunburned too, jesus! Just because you're courting skin cancer....")

"Thinking about what?" Alex asks.

"You. Us. The last nine months. The summer ahead of us."

"We're gonna have the best summer ever," Alex says. "A full summer of just us. You and me and free reign over the lab and our own place to do whatever we want and no obligations until August. We'll have like, two and a half months to make our own plans, work on our own projects, go on our own adventures...."

They've been talking about The Best Summer Ever, the Summer of John and Alex, for a few weeks now. Alex used it as a carrot on a stick to get through finals and John's used it as a reminder every time he starts to get nostalgic about how different things will be this summer. Sure, things are changing, but they're changing for the better, overall. The changes are going to allow John and Alex to build a whole new life.

The biggest change is that they're moving--Lafayette is going to be spending the summer in France with Adrienne and then, theoretically, Adrienne is coming back to Morristown with him. John was a little shocked to hear that, to be honest--the few times John has talked to Adrienne one-on-one she's seemed pretty married to finishing her degree in Paris. Still, according to Laf, she's recognized that Morristown will be good for her career. Also according to Laf, he and Adrienne are just friends, so she'll need her own bedroom. His lease is up at the end of May, and after weighing the pros and cons and all the different solutions, the three of them decided that it would be best if John and Alex got their own place and Laf and Adrienne picked out a new place together.

In addition to spending the summer without Laf, Hercules has a weird new summer job that he thinks will keep him out of Morristown for weeks at a time. On one hand, it's kind of a drag--Herc and Laf are their friends and spending a whole summer without them is gonna suck. On the other hand, John is embarrassingly excited at the idea of having Alex to himself, of spending whole months together without worrying about alienating their friends with their PDA and habit of reading each other's minds. He's absolutely sure that after a week he's gonna be ready to murder Alex from over-exposure, but at the moment, he loves the idea a little too much.

Burr will be around, in theory, but he's not actually working for Washington over the summer, so hopefully they won't see him as much as usual. When they have cases, he'll be good to call in for help and consultation, but maybe this way he won't be constantly sticking his nose in their relationship and their business. And, of course, they'll have Molly and Jamika and Ben and a couple other people sticking around, but they've never been more than minor players in Alex and John's story--the summer will still be about them.

The summer of John and Alex. John is excited.

They finish their cake, but stay by the pool. John would like to find the dogs again and maybe get some fetch going, but Laf and Jamika pull them into a music debate ("Don't ask him," Alex insists, "he listens to the shittiest noise and calls it music, you don't even know.") and then Molly has joined them in the pool, her arms thrown lazily over a pool noodle so her head and shoulders are floating out of the water.

"They're closing the pool on campus for repairs this summer," she says as Laf and Jamika make a game of shoving her back and forth between them. "It's bad enough that it's usually overrun with judgey, skinnyass undergrads during the year, but to fucking close it for the summer? That's the best time for pools!"

"It's also the time when 90% of the campus is absent," Jamika reminds her.

"Well, the remaining ten percent deserve nice things too," Molly says.

"You do not even live on campus," Laf says.

"Details!"

"Hey," John says, kicking his foot out towards her. He's given in and moved to the edge of the pool, his legs dangling in.

"What?" she says.

"Before I zoned out to play with the dog, what were you trying to talk to me about?"

Molly looks at Laf and Jamika and Alex and then sighs and lets go of the pool noodle, slipping under the water and reappearing at the pool ladder. She climbs out and gestures for John to join her over near the opposite edge, far enough away that the others won't hear them if they keep their voices low.

"Everyone knows you have a crush on Maggie," John says, though he doesn't speak above a murmur.

"Shut up," Molly says. "Let me cling to the fantasy that I'm subtle and not making a fool out of myself."

"You're not making a fool out of yourself, Mol," John says, his heart breaking a little for her. 

"I will be if she turns me down," she says. "And I'm gonna ask her out. I am. I'm not sure how yet, but I'm gonna do it tomorrow. It's a Tuesday, the bar will be pretty empty, most of the assholes we know are gone now, and I don't have any plans to hang out there for the rest of the week and into next, so I can spend a little time away when she inevitably shoots me down."

John ignores the last part. "Awesome! Good on you--she'll definitely say yes because you're adorable, but if she doesn't, it's because she's an idiot."

"Thanks for covering all the bases," Molly says dryly. "Listen, I'm telling you because...can you come by for moral support? I don't even know what the hell to do or say and I might need someone to bolster my courage and/or comfort me when it goes to shit."

"It's not going to go to shit," John assures her. He hopes he's not lying. "But...I'm not sure if I can make it out. Alex and I are going by our new place tomorrow and we're taking Laf to the airport with the Washingtons and I kind of have a feeling they're gonna be empty-nesting pretty hard and might make us come back for dinner tomorrow night."

"Ugh," Molly groans. "You're no help!"

"I'm some help!" he insists. "Because, listen, what does Maggie always bitch about when we ask her how she's doing at the start of the night?"

Molly blinks at him and shrugs.

"That the Frog is too far into the middle of nowhere for her to go get dinner and come back before her break is over," John says. It's entirely possible Molly's crush is killing her brain cells or her memory. "Bring her dinner."

"I can't just...bring her dinner," Molly says dubiously.

"You totally can," John says. "Bring a pizza or something. Everyone likes pizza, and if she doesn't want it, you know there will be someone we know around who will go to town on it."

"I...don't know," Molly says, but John can see that she's more nervous than dubious now.

"It's the chillest possible way to do this," John says. "Offer her some dinner, when she accepts go out and sit with her and say something like, 'We should do this again, but maybe somewhere with cloth napkins.'"

"That's a terrible line," Molly says.

"It's better than most of my lines," he admits.

He can tell she's considering it. 

"If this doesn't work and I end up embarrassing myself, you're gonna have to kiss my ass extra hard if you want to stay on von Steuben's party list," Molly warns him.

"You're gonna have to fight Alex for that pleasure," John says, and Molly groans.

"That line is so bad you're lucky I didn't push you into the pool," she says. "No dumb puns in front of Maggie tonight or I'll have your ass."

"You're gonna have to fight Alex for that, too," John says, grinning, and Molly groans again and this time she does shove him. It catches him completely off guard--he didn't think she was serious--and he tumbles ass over teakettle into the pool. He flails around once he's under water and finally pops back up to the surface, sputtering. Laf and Jamika are laughing and Alex has gotten up and run halfway over to Molly in shock.

"I hate to do this," Alex says, jogging the last few feet, his expression relaxed now that John has surfaced, "but I've gotta avenge my man."

And then Alex shoves Molly towards the water as well. Even with the warning, she seems to be caught off guard. She manages to grab onto Alex as she stumbles. He thinks she's trying to right herself, but neither she nor Alex can keep their footing and they tumble into the water together.

Alex is halfway between outraged and shocked once he kicks to the surface. John has joined Laf and Jamika in laughing, and Alex splashes him in irritation once he gets his wits about him.

"I was defending you!" he insists, and splashes John again, except John ducks and he gets Jamika right in the face.

"Oh, you're on, Ham," she says, and just like that, John forgets about the new apartment and the best summer ever and Molly's relationship drama and throws himself completely into an epic splash fight.


	2. Part One: I. flaunting our love like a dance step mastered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette visits France, the boys visit their new apartment, Lee visits Washington's lab, Molly visits John and Alex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! I think we're going to try a Tuesday-Friday update schedule until Christmas, at which point I might take a week or so off, and then start posting Part Two in the new year.
> 
> The title of this section is from "You Rise and Meet the Day" by Dar Williams. The title of the story is from "On the Radio" by Regina Spektor, and I meant to say that last time, but half my author's note got eaten by a rough emoji and I forgot to shove it back in when I re-wrote it.

Tuesday morning, they manage to make it all the way to the airport before Mrs. Washington bursts into tears.

It's better than John thought, to be honest--from the moment she started fretting as they all piled into the car, he and Alex began to exchange Looks preparing for her inevitable tears. They're all going to miss Lafayette over the summer, but his relationship with the Washingtons is so complicated and weird that John isn't surprised they're taking it hard.

Laf's an adult and has spent half his life flying back and forth around Europe and the US, but they still leave the car in short term parking and walk with him to the security line. 

"Text us," John says, hugging him tightly. "Like, a lot."

"I will bother you endlessly on Twitter, too," he promises. "Keep me updated on all of the gossip!"

"There's hardly gonna be anyone here," Alex says, taking his turn to hug Laf. 

"That's when all the scandalous things happen!" Laf insists. He holds Alex at arm's length and frowns at both of them. "It will be sad, not living with you anymore."

"Aw, you'll get over it," John says. "You'll be with Adrienne and we'll just be a few minutes away whenever you want to play Halo or heckle _Criminal Minds_."

"Yeah, and it'll be a relief not accidentally walking in on us having sex in the shower, probably," Alex adds.

"That was your fault," John reminds him.

"I told you to lock the door!"

"I told you we shouldn't have sex in the shower at six am!"

"You're right," Laf says, dropping his hold on Alex. "I'll get over missing you." The three of them grin at each other, and despite what John has just told Lafayette about being just around the corner, he feels a pang at the knowledge that they won't be roommates after this, probably not ever again.

When Alex steps backwards, Mrs. W swoops in and hugs Laf again, sniffling as she squeezes him. 

"Call us!" she orders him, and he nods repeatedly, hunched over to hug her. John feels, not for the first time, like they're intruding on a private moment. He elbows Alex and motions towards the entrance, where the two of them quietly retreat to allow the Washingtons and Laf a moment alone.

"I'm happy for him," Alex says, leaning against the windows beside the automatic doors. "Like, I'm happy he gets to live with someone he loves--because that's pretty awesome--and I'm happy he's going to feel less torn between Paris and Morristown."

"Me too," John says.

"But." Alex sighs. "I don't know. I'm gonna miss being his roommate. We had a good thing going, the three of us."

"We did."

"But," Alex continues again, "I'm also really excited to have a place with you? Even if it's probably gonna be pretty shitty and tiny in comparison and even though we've already been living together. I don't know. It feels. Important."

"It does."

"I'm feeling a lot of things, is what I'm saying."

"When are you not?" John asks, looking at him sideways and barely biting back a smile. 

"You're an asshole," Alex says, and pushes off the glass, wrapping his arms around John from behind. "Just because you're allergic to feelings...."

They stand like that for a moment, both of them watching the Washingtons take turns hugging Laf. All three of them are crying now, even Washington. Alex adjusts his stance so he's leaning more comfortably against John, his arms still around his waist.

"Do you think they're gonna take all their parenting out on us for the rest of the summer?" he asks.

"Probably," John says. "Especially if Patsy really only ends up meeting them on vacation for a long weekend. They're gonna need an outlet."

"There are worse things than being aggressively parented," Alex says.

"Says the king of 'I-don't-need-your-help-I-practically-raised-myself-you-know,'" John murmurs, and Alex pinches him. 

"I'm getting used to it," he admits. "This whole family thing. I barely even flinch when GWash calls me 'son' now."

"Yeah, it only took you nine months of family dinners and Mrs. W sending us home with leftovers and warm winter clothes and using Laf to check up on us," John says. "Maybe if we're lucky, Washington's Dad-ness will reach its peak when we're moving and we can talk him into carrying all our shit up three flights of stairs."

"If only," Alex says. After a moment, he asks, "Do you think we'll get sick of each other, living together?"

"Babe, we already live together," John reminds him, but he just rests his head on John's shoulder. "I think...I think we get on each other's nerves sometimes. I think sometimes we want to strangle each other. But I don't think I could ever get sick of you."

"Me either," Alex says, pressing his nose against John's cheek. 

Eventually, the Washingtons and Lafayette look less like they're going to burst into sobs and more like Laf is ready to go through security. John tugs Alex back over and they say goodbye one final time.

"I'll only be gone for twelve weeks," Laf reminds them. "I'll be back before you know it."

They wave as he gets on the security line and then Washington sighs and wipes his eyes.

"Okay," he says. "Back to the car. You boys have an appointment to keep, yes?"

"Yup," Alex says. "We're gonna go see the new place."

"Your first home together," Mrs. Washington says, putting her arm around Alex's shoulder and giving him a half-hug. "How exciting!"

"For a certain value of exciting," Alex says.

"That means it's a dump," John says, and Mrs. Washington laughs. "But it's still gonna be ours and...that's pretty cool," he allows afterwards.

"I can't wait to hear all about it," Mrs. Washington says, releasing Alex and nudging him back towards John. "I'm sure it will be much nicer than you think it is once you get inside."

John's not sure he would go _that far_ , but he keeps quiet as they head back towards the car and return to Morristown.

* * *

In the end, the new apartment is about as dumpy as John thinks it's going to be. 

It's in a much less fashionable part of town than their old place, the part of town that John was looking at when he first came down from Cambridge looking for a sublet last summer, with only his very meager savings and a minimum wage retail job to make rent. It's an older building, brick and five stories, crumbling and unkempt in places, but not entirely in disrepair. Many of the tenants have flower boxes, which is something, and there's off-street parking. Herc and a tall, skinny black dude are waiting for them in front of the entrance when they stroll up.

"My cousin, Eddie," Herc says, gesturing at the other guy. "John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton."

"Hey," John says.

"Nice to meet you," Alex says.

Eddie nods at them. "Wanna see the place?"

John and Alex glance at each other, then nod.

"Follow me."

Eddie leads them up three flights of stairs and all the way to the end of the hallway. The interior is drab--poor lighting, no interior windows, carpet and paint job that have seen better days--but not awful. "Like I said to Herc, these ones on the end of the hall are tinier than the other units. One bedroom, one bathroom, living room, kitchen, closet in the bedroom. Four hundred and fifty square feet. That's about it. Nothing fancy, but it's pretty cheap to start with and I'll give you the family discount."

He unlocks the door and gestures for John and Alex to enter.

He was right about it being tiny--from the doorway, John can see the entirety of the apartment. Directly across from him is the kitchen, separated from the living room by a half wall. It looks like it can barely hold two people at a time. Past that, he can see into the hallway where the bathroom door is open, across from a closed door that must be the bedroom.

"It has an air conditioner," Alex murmurs. "And a dishwasher." Two amenities that some of the places they looked at hadn't even mentioned.

John wanders further into the room. It's definitely...small. It's a good thing they don't have much stuff. Their couch and kitchen table will fit in the living room, along with the entertainment center for the television and Xbox, but that's about it. He turns down the hall, peering first into the bathroom--toilet, tub, sink, washer and dryer, all basically on top of each other--and then the empty bedroom. There's another window in there and another air conditioner, thank god. He walks slowly across the empty space, trying to envision it full of their belongings. He almost doesn't hear Alexander come up behind him.

"What do you think?" Alex asks.

"I think it's a shoebox," John says. "But I think we're not gonna find a place with air conditioning, a dishwasher, and in-unit laundry for anything even _near_ this price."

"It's not so bad." Alex slips his arms around John's waist before he can turn around. "It's cozy. It's just the two of us--we don't need a ton of space. We're not home most of the time anyway, and when we are, we're usually just on the couch or in bed."

"True," John admits, leaning back and letting Alex take his weight.

"We don't have to worry about sharing cabinet space or shelf space or anything like that. Everything is ours, and we don't have much to start with." He nuzzles John's cheek and pulls him closer. "Just me and you."

"Yeah," John murmurs.

"A place of our own." He spreads his fingers out, stretches them until he has a solid hold on John's hips, and John has to clear his throat.

"Babe, we should probably wait to christen the place until after we've signed some paperwork."

"I'm excited," Alex says into his ear.

John presses his hips pointedly backwards. "I can tell."

They both crack up and John wiggles free so he can turn around and wrap his arms around Alex's neck. The place is tiny and oddly shaped and has no elevator and is three times as far from the school, but it's their place. It's a home that they're making together. They're going to put their names on a piece of paper that says they plan to be here, in this space, together, for the next three hundred and sixty-five days, at least.

Jesus. It shouldn't feel so monumental, but it does.

"And sure, this is on the small side," Alex says, swaying gently side to side and bringing John with him, "but it's just for now. Our next place will be bigger."

"Next place," John repeats.

"Mmhm," Alex says. "In another year, we'll have our full IP certification and we can raise our rates. And I'm gonna have to come out as Athenodorus sooner rather than later, at which point I can think about accepting one of those book deals people keep lobbing at me. There's money in that for you too--I'm not working with any other photographer. I'll make that a stipulation of the agreement. We could use the advance to put a down payment on a place or at least save for one. If we wanna stay here, it'll probably be a condo or something, but if we go somewhere less suburban, we could probably already afford a house with that kind of money."

John is surprised by how much he's not panicking at the prospect of all of that. "You've thought this through," he murmurs. Their swaying has slowed into something like a dance. He can hear Herc and Eddie talking in the other room, but it still feels private and intimate.

"It's all in my ten-year plan," Alex says, and only sounds a little bit arrogant. "It's changed a little since I met you, but not that much. Mostly, it just means I'm not doing any of those things alone anymore."

In ten years, John will be thirty-three. He tries to imagine himself at thirty-three and comes up blank, until he tries, specifically, to imagine himself with Alex. That's not hard at all, which is surprising. To think of him and Alex working together and living together a decade from now is somehow easier. It's all fuzzy, still, more of a concept then a clear picture in his mind, but it's something where there's usually nothing but the knowledge that there's an even chance he won't see thirty.

"I'm glad one of us has a plan," John says, because it sounds less troubling than _I've never believed I'd be around long enough to make that sort of plan._

"Don't worry, baby," Alex says, "I've got everything set--our future's gonna be awesome."

John can't help his fond grin. "I can't wait."

He doesn't have to move very far to kiss Alex; they're already so close John can feel his heartbeat. He doesn't intend the kiss to be steamy or very long, but before he can end it, Herc is shouting for them from the other room.

"Hey, y'all better have all your clothes on in there!"

Alex pulls away, laughing. "Why," he shouts back, "do you want us to wait for you to get started?"

John laughs, dropping his head so it's muffled against Alex's shoulder and out in the living room, Herc barks a laugh as well. Moments later, he and Eddie are standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

"So?" Herc asks.

John straightens up and drops his arms from around Alex's neck, taking his hand instead. "We're gonna take it."

"Cool," Eddie says. "Let's go down to my office and we can talk about the paperwork and all that crap."

"Lead on," Alex says, and with one last glance around their future apartment, John and Alex follow Eddie out into the hallway and down to the office to discuss their future.

*

Eddie has to do a background check and a credit check, even though Herc's vouched for them, so he gives Alex and John the lease and the rest of the legal paperwork to look over and sign overnight and tells them to come back tomorrow after three. He promises them that it's just a formality and Herc doubles down on the promise by assuring them that if they get rejected for whatever reason, they can live in his place over the shop and he'll move into Eddie's building.

"That apartment is fucking sweet," Alex says.

"That's how confident I am that you two'll be signing a lease for this shoebox tomorrow afternoon," Herc says.

And with that reassurance, they head back to their current apartment.

It's strange and empty without Lafayette. They've spent time alone in the apartment without him before--he was in France for Christmas and occasionally crashed at the Washingtons' after family dinners ran late--but now there's a certain finality about his absence. It's not just his presence missing, but his things--his dishes and furniture are in storage along with his dvds and books. His bedroom is empty and the two selves in the bathroom that were full of his various hair products and fancy soaps are similarly bare. He's left them the couch--theirs to keep--and they're holding onto his television and entertainment center until he gets back from France and they get their own. 

"We should start packing," John says, slumping onto the couch and stretching out with no intention to actually start packing.

"Yeah," Alex says, but he doesn't join John on the couch. John can hear his footsteps wandering into the kitchen. He waits a moment for Alex to come back and then sighs when it becomes apparent he won't be joining John any time soon.

"Alex?" John calls into the kitchen.

"Hm?"

John waits another moment and then thunks his head back on the arm of the couch. "Baby, I'm tired."

Alex doesn't reply and John grumbles to himself and pushes up off the couch to go find him.

Alex is sitting on the edge of the counter in the kitchen, drumming his fingers on the formica and staring into space.

"Alex," John says, and Alex blinks rapidly and then looks down at him. 

"Sorry, what?"

"I was trying to entice you into coming and lying on the couch with me," John says. "What's up?"

"Just having stupid thoughts," Alex says. 

John moves to stand between his knees and rests his hands on his thighs. "How stupid?"

"I've never had a problem leaving a place before," Alex says. "Fuck, I've been happy and eager to leave places behind. Even after my mom died--I was so fucked up, I didn't even want to go back to the house to pack. I kind of regret that now, I think. But it's been the same with everywhere else--my cousin's place, the Stevens', the island in general...I didn't even bother to personalize my dorm and apartment in New York. I guess I sort of expected it to be the same here but...I don't know. I have a lot of memories of this apartment and all of them are good. This was the first place that's really felt like home since my mom died."

He looks down at John again, his grin a little self-conscious and lopsided. John reaches up to brush back some of the hair that's fallen out of Alex's messy bun, tucking it behind his ear. He realizes, suddenly, that he feels the same way. Maybe not as strongly as Alex--his traumas are different--but similarly enough. John's shuffled around a lot over the past decade, and this apartment has been something different, something lasting. He wasn't even here a year, but it was a place he chose with people he likes. It was a place he liked to spend time, a place he looked forward to returning to at night. That's hardly ever been true of any of the places he's lived before.

"None of that is stupid," he says quietly to Alex. "I get it."

"We all met at the Frog," Alex says. "But I fell in love with you here. I became friends with Laf. We had all of those nights drinking and playing video games and sharing stories with him and Herc. We had our first fight here and you told me you loved me for the first time here and...I just felt like I fit in for the first time. Like I was somewhere I belonged. And it's a little rough to leave that behind, even though I'm taking all the best parts with me." He reaches down and covers John's hands with his own, then turns them so he can weave their fingers together. "That's you. You're the best part."

"You're unforgivably maudlin sometimes," John says. His face is heating up and he wants to look away, but it's hard to break eye contact when Alex looks so open and soft.

"That's patently untrue, you always forgive me," Alex says. He _smirks_ because he's a fucking _asshole_. John scrunches up his nose in response and Alex drops his hands, grabbing his face instead, cupping his hands around John's jaw and tipping upward so he can better lean over for a kiss. 

Alex's fingers slide easily into John's hair, even though it's a tangled mess today. He keeps John from going too far, holding him firmly in place. John had maybe expected the kiss to be quick and sweet and chaste, but Alex is taking his time, making it slow and searing instead. When they finally part, there's fire in his eyes when he says, "You know, we've had sex in the living room, in the bedroom, in the hallway, in the bathroom...I don't think we've ever fucked in the kitchen."

"Well," John says breathlessly, "there's only one way to change that."

Alex smirks again, and John pushes up onto his toes to kiss that expression right off of his face.

They'll have plenty of time for packing later.

* * *

Wednesday morning, Washington has a lab meeting scheduled more or less during business hours. It's the first time since grading was due that they have actual responsibilities and their whole routine seems off--the meeting isn't until ten, so they're going in much later than they have been the last couple semesters and without Lafayette. They're also in the weeks between the end of the spring semester and the start of the summer term, so the campus is dead quiet when John pulls into the parking lot.

"Spooky," Alex says, knocking their shoulders together as they head inside.

The lab wing is less spooky. They can hear Ben talking in von Steuben's lab as they walk past and the door to one of the hallway storage closets is open, with Jamika shifting through the contents. When they get to Washington's lab, Burr is already sitting at his desk and there's a sixth year student sitting at one of the empty desks, arms crossed and glaring. Charles Lee. He's in Greene's lab and John hasn't interacted with him a lot, but none of those interactions have been particularly pleasant. Once they enter, Washington breezes in from the office, his arms full of books.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he says. "How was the new apartment?"

"A closet with a toilet and a refrigerator," Alex says, hopping up to sit on the edge of his desk. John sits next to him, shoving some of Alex's mess onto his own desk to make room. "But also kind of great?" He looks at John for confirmation and John grins.

"Yeah," John agrees. "Like, it's a dump, but it's our dump now?" 

"Wait," Burr asks, "are you two moving in together?"

"We already live together," John reminds him. He's in a pretty good mood, so all he adds is, "I believe you've already made your opinions about that known. Like, a lot."

"We're moving to a new place," Alex clarifies before John can get into it with Burr any further. Alex and his fucking desire to be buddies with Burr--John will never understand it, the guy's a condescending asshole. "Laf's lease is up at the end of the month and, in theory, Adrienne is moving here in the fall and since he's convinced they're 'just friends,' we'd need three bedrooms anyway. So, yeah, me and John are getting our own place and they'll get a place together in the fall. And maybe when they give into the inevitable and free up a bedroom, we'll move back in with them but...." He shrugs.

"You know relationships aren't a race to the finish line, right?" Burr says. "There's no winner for getting it all done first."

"I don't know," Alex says before John can eagerly take that bait and get in Burr's face about his weird judgey obsession with their relationship. "I think we could definitely figure out a way to win relationships."

"Also, it's none of your business?" John adds. "We're allowed to move as fast or slow as we want, as it turns out."

"And we're into moving fast," Alex says. "I mean, we moved in together after a day, we're just speeding up all our major relationship milestones. At this rate we'll be married by Christmas."

John doesn't _mean_ to react to that, but he can't keep himself from jerking back, coughing as he tries to swallow and breathe at the same time as a wave of panic makes him cold from head to toe.

"...Or not," Alex says, eyeing John warily. John grabs his hand and squeezes it tightly. The last thing he wants is for Alex to misinterpret that, to think that it's _him_ that caused this reaction.

"No, no, baby, I just--" he stutters. "Jesus, let me get my PhD before we start talking about that shit, okay?"

Alex rolls his eyes, but pulls John closer, right up against his side. John relaxes against him and intertwines their fingers. "Babe, if you have a secret fear of commitment, I have bad news about the legal paperwork we're about to sign."

"Shut up, asshole," John says. "The whole fucking point of this conversation is that yes, we've got our own place now, it's a third floor walk-up dump about eighty miles from here, but it's still kind of cool that it's just ours."

"We can buy whatever beer we want," Alex says, thankfully taking John's hint and steering the conversation far, far away from the future. After yesterday, John needs at least a few days to think about these new revelations before he can talk about them and about ten times longer than that before he can talk about them with _Aaron Burr_. "Laf's a fucking snob, he wouldn't let us 'contaminate' his fridge with anything he deemed too garbage for his tastes."

"He also wouldn't let us buy boxed wine," John says.

Washington shakes his head fondly. He almost looks a little misty-eyed. John kind of wants to remind him that Laf'll be back in, like, three months.

"Anyway," Alex says, "the apartment is good, thanks for asking. We move next week, so we've just gotta finish packing, but we don't have a ton of stuff."

"Good, good," Washington says. "I don't imagine your work this summer will be too time consuming, so you should have plenty of time for the move. If you need anything shifted around, don't hesitate to let me know. And I assume you have Mr. Mulligan for any moving assistance, but if you need anything further...."

"It's okay, I have a strapping, muscular boyfriend for all the heavy lifting," Alex says.

John elbows him. "Don't think you're going to get out of moving shit just because you have the upper body strength of an infant."

"Aw, baby, but it's so sexy when you carry heavy things up three flights of stairs while I watch."

"I haven't signed that lease yet; there's still time for me to find somewhere else to live."

"Is there a point to this meeting?"

Everyone's attention is redirected to Charles Lee, who is, unbelievably, even more irritated than when they first came in.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lee," Washington says. It's possible he's low-key pissed? It's hard for John to tell these things when it comes to Washington. "I think you'll find that this lab is rather informal, as long as quality work is delivered on time. But I catch your point--this will be a very brief meeting and probably the only full lab meeting we'll have this summer. First order of business: Mr. Lee will be joining our lab for the summer term."

That revelation is followed by silence from John, Alex, and Burr. He can only guess that the other two are as shocked as he is. Washington is tremendously picky about who can work in his lab, and, as far as John has heard from other people at the school, he never takes transfers. Their group of four is the largest group Washington has ever recruited in anyone's memory.

"Mr. Lee hopes to graduate at the end of the summer term, but Dr. Greene is on sabbatical this summer. I'll be supervising the remaining work Mr. Lee needs to complete and be heading his committee in August. As such, he'll be working in this lab for the next three months. I expect you'll treat him with the same respect you would treat any of your other co-workers."

John and Alex look at each other, eyebrows raised. They have a quick silent conversation communicating their shock and confusion. Even Burr seems to be displeased by this news.

"Second order of business," Washington continues before Alex or John can voice their disbelief. "As you all know, I'll be out of town from June 28 through July 13. If you need anything during that time, please bring it to Dr. Adams or Dr. von Steuben. You're all very competent and independent and I don't doubt things will be fine in my absence, but just in case."

"I'll water Laf's plants while you're gone," John says, and Washington's mouth twists into an expression that John hasn't ever seen. It might be embarrassment.

"If you wouldn't mind, ah...doing that all summer?" he says. Definitely embarrassment. John is almost too shocked to nod in response. "Thank you. I know I told him I'd handle it, but I've never had much luck keeping plants alive."

"Sure," John says.

"Final order of business--Lee knows what work he needs to complete this summer. Mr. Burr, you'll be finishing up a poster for the IAP conference, correct?"

"Correct," Burr says.

"Hamilton and Laurens--as research assistants for the summer, you'll be cataloging the latest collections donated to the department from the community. The boxes are currently being stored in Nathanael's office. I'd like this done before the conference, but I don't expect it will take you that long. I'm giving you key card access to my office and Nathanael's for the summer--I trust you won't abuse this. You'll also be finding out in the next few weeks if your proposal for the IAP conference was accepted. If it was, I'll be available for consultation, but I expect you to do the bulk of the preparation for this presentation by yourselves. I don't foresee this being an issue."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Alex says. "Neither of us is a hyper Type A asshole control freak."

John elbows him. "Speak for yourself."

"Babe," Alex says flatly.

"We have met you, Laurens," Burr adds.

"I don't like any of you right now," John says, and Alex takes his hand and kisses the back of it.

"It's one of your better qualities," he insists.

"Regardless," Washington says, "you're still permitted to use our equipment here for activities outside of your work here, but the same rules as always apply--university work comes first and you're responsible for any damages. Any questions?"

"Can I go?" Lee asks.

"You're free to come and go as you please, Mr. Lee," Washington says. "Just remember what Dr. Greene said to you before he left."

Lee glares at Washington, then Burr. His glare turns into something closer to a sneer when it falls on John and Alex, after which he climbs to his feet, grabs his messenger bag, and storms out of the lab.

Silence lingers in his wake. Washington pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I know your first instinct will be to nettle Mr. Lee," he says, looking over at Alex and John. John tries to school his expression into one of shocked innocence. "I suggest you give him a wide berth. The sooner he finishes up his research, the sooner he'll be out of our hair."

"What's his deal?" Alex asks. Even Burr looks curious.

"I can't speak to what's on his mind," Washington says. "What I _will_ say is that he's now three terms behind on his graduation plan, his funding ran out last semester, and after tracking his use of resources for the past six months, I have given him an ultimatum."

"If his funding ran out, how is he even still here?" Alex asks.

"It's not my place to gossip," Washington says, "but if you were to google 'Sir Henry Bunbury,' Lee's maternal grandfather, you may stumble upon some relevant information from which to draw your own conclusions."

"No shit," John says. "I think I went to school with one of his cousins in Geneva, then."

"I don't doubt it," Washington says. "Now, putting Lee aside, are you boys free for dinner tomorrow night?" Belatedly, he seems to remember Burr is also in the room. "And you as well, of course, Mr. Burr."

"I think we're good?" Alex says, glancing at John, who nods. "Yeah, we're good. We've just got to pack, but that won't take that long."

"I...think I'll have to pass, though I appreciate the invitation," Burr says diplomatically.

"I'll let Martha know," Washington says. "Otherwise, I'll leave you all to your work."

Washington heads back to his office and Burr to his desk, leaving John and Alex alone at theirs.

"I'll put together a cataloging document for the books if you start to go over the current state of our slide deck?" Alex suggests.

"Deal," John says, and hops off the desk to turn on his computer and get started.

They work in near silence for a few minutes. John clicks through their presentation to refamiliarize himself with the outline of their proposal, making notes idly about how to break up the slides and how much time to spend on some of the denser material. Next to him, Alex hums and types and clicks and taps his foot to an unheard rhythm. 

Still, it's less than an hour of that quiet work before Washington, of all people, breaks the silence after the sound of a brief commotion.

" _Please_ watch where you're going, Ms. Ludwig," he says, and Molly's name catches John's attention. Sure enough, Molly and Washington are both standing in the doorway of the lab, having attempted to walk through the entry way simultaneously.

"Sorry, sir," Molly says, but she's not looking at Washington--her gaze has zeroed in on John. She heads straight for his desk once she ducks under Washington's arm, jaw and shoulders set.

"Hey, Mol."

"I need to talk to you," Molly hisses. "Where the fuck were you last night?"

"Having sex on the kitchen floor," Alex says without looking up from his desk.

"Ugh," Molly says, glaring at Alex. Behind them, Burr pointedly clears his throat. John rolls his eyes and grabs Molly's sleeve, tugging her back towards the closet office. Alex does look up at that, and then gets to his feet to follow them.

The office is a little cramped with three people, but it has a door that shuts and blocks out any stupid comments or looks from Burr. Molly drops into one of the guest chairs and John perches on the end of the desk. Alex leans against the wall, watching them both and looking for all the world like he wants to be shoveling popcorn into his mouth.

"So?" John asks.

"So I was at the Frog last night," Molly says. "And you weren't there and I didn't want to tell Ben yet, so I had like, no back-up queers. It was just me. And her! And I did what you said and offered to grab her something to eat on her break, so once her break started, we went out back and we were sitting out there talking and I didn't know what to _do_ and it was _awkward_ and nothing happened."

"I'm sorry, Mol," John says, and he really is genuinely sorry. Molly is great and she seems a little lonely sometimes and he wishes he could make other queer girls see how great she is.

"No!" Molly says quickly. "Nothing happened then! But then, we were headed back inside and she stopped me and said, 'Thank you' and then kissed me."

John doesn't mean to gape at her and he's sure she gets the wrong impression, but he can't help it. Before she can get offended, he says quickly, "And you didn't _lead_ with that?"

"Well I don't know what kind of kiss it was!" she says, crossing her arms and glowering at him. 

"You don't know what kind of kiss it was," John repeats. "Does it matter?"

"It could be, like, a thank you kiss!" Molly insists. "A platonic 'gee, thanks for the pizza, here's a kiss' deal."

"Does that happen to you a lot?" Alex asks. "Is that like, a thing? Can you buy physical affection from Maggie at the bar with pizza?"

Molly whirls to Alex and points at him, which is actually pretty threatening in a ten by ten room. Molly could probably beat the crap out of Alex, and Alex knows it. He slinks further back against the wall.

"Don't start with me," she says. "There's a reason I haven't asked your dumb ass for advice."

"I give great advice!" Alex insists.

"Oh yeah?" Molly says. "How do you suggest I get a girlfriend?"

Alex opens his mouth for a second and then closes it thoughtfully. After a second, he tries, "Just go to the Frog and follow home the first hot girl you see and then move in with her?"

Molly raises both her eyebrows and crosses her arms again.

"Okay, so maybe I've only ever had one boyfriend," Alex says. "But still."

"Alex, shut up," John says. "Molly, can we circle back around to why the hell someone would give you a 'thank you for pizza' kiss on the mouth?"

"Maybe it's something people do!" Molly says.

"Sometimes I don't even thank John for pizza with a kiss on the mouth," Alex says.

"I thought we all agreed you were gonna be quiet," John says, and Alex flips him off, but leans back against the wall quietly all the same.

"I'm panicking," Molly concedes. "I pretty much know I'm panicking. But it's not stopping me from doing it, you know? I didn't imagine she'd actually _like me_."

"You're very likable," John assures her. "And this is good, right? Now you know she likes you!"

"Or she thinks you're trying to use pizza to barter for something," Alex says.

"Oh my god, Hamilton, I will _tape your mouth closed_!" Molly says, grabbing the masking tape off the desk and waving it at him.

"He's not good at closing his mouth unless there's a dick in it," John tells her.

"Jeez, TMI, Laurens." Molly's nose scrunches up in disgust.

"You know, words can be weapons too, John," Alex says very solemnly, laughter dancing in his eyes.

"Make yourself useful and go get me a fucking coffee or something, asshole," John says, and Alex grins and pushes off the wall, darting forward to kiss John's cheek before he slips out of the office and closes the door behind him. John tries to push the fond smile off of his face and fails pretty terribly. "Sorry about that," he says to Molly. 

"Did you two fuck in the car this morning or something?" she asks. "You're usually bad, but this is next level."

"We saw our new place yesterday," John says. "And we started talking about...you know, the future and stuff. It was a little heady, I think we're a little weird today."

"No shit," she says.

"Anyway, Alex aside, this is good," John says. "She likes you, obviously."

"And like...I get that," Molly says. "But it's hard to tell--I mean, I really like her. I, you know, girlfriend-like her. But I don't know if she's looking for a girlfriend or just wants to hook up in thanks or...what." She covers her face with her hands and John hops off the desk to sit in the chair next to her and pat her shoulder.

"If Alex were still here he'd start laughing when I said the next bit," John says, rubbing the back of his neck, "but...I think you just need to talk to her. Just tell her, 'Hey, I like you, I'd like to go out with you if that's a thing you'd be into, if not that's also cool,' or something like that."

"I hate talking," Molly says without dropping her hands.

"I do too, believe me," John says. "Literally the only reason I ever talk about this crap is because my boyfriend drags it out of me against my will. If Alex wasn't such an asshole and so obsessed with talking out every problem he encounters, we would have broken up a long time ago."

"That's hard to believe," Molly says, leaning back and finally uncovering her face. "You two are obsessed with each other."

"Yeah, but being obsessed with each other doesn't replace understanding each other," John says. "We had a huge fight last year. If it had been anyone else, I probably would have just stewed in resentment and never gotten over it, but he wouldn't let me go to bed until I explained why I was upset. And, you know, it was good--he hadn't understood my side at all until I spelled it out and I...I guess I hadn't considered his side until he did the same. Talking's important."

God, he's a fucking hypocrite. It's easy to say it to someone else, to wave it off as crucial as if Alex doesn't have to back him into a corner to get an answer to the simplest of questions about John's feelings. It's simple now, when John is happy and healthy and content and has no problem telling Alex all of that and having it be true.

"I hate it," Molly says again, but she sighs, resigned. "Are you going to the Frog tonight? Will you be there for back-up if this goes to hell and I need someone to buy me shots and drag my miserable ass home?"

"I'll talk to Alex, but I don't think we have anything planned," John says. "Laf's gone for the summer and we need to pack, but we don't have that much stuff. Plus, we're signing the lease on the new place today, so Herc might wanna take us out for a celebratory drink."

"Let's hope it's double celebratory," Molly says with grim determination, like she's headed off into war.

The door to the office opens again and Alex slowly and carefully walks inside, three cups of coffee balanced in his hands. He kicks the door shut behind him and gingerly places the three mugs down on the desk. John grabs his immediately, red with the Rebel Alliance symbol from _Star Wars_ and a chip on the top. Alex's mug is emblazoned with the logo of the shop he worked at on the island and is maybe older than he is. He nudges the third, a freebie from an old IAP conference, towards Molly.

"I _almost_ forgive you for being a shithead," she says, taking a sip. "Thanks."

Alex sits abruptly on John's lap, which knocks the wind out of him in surprise and almost makes him spill his coffee. "Watch it, asshole! Coffee inspired goodwill is less effective if I'm wearing it."

Alex waves him off. "I have better ways to get back in your good graces," he says. "Did you guys have a good talk?"

"You're coming with me to the Frog tonight," Molly informs him. "Also, John gave very good advice about open communication."

Alex sputters. John thinks he might have snorted coffee up his nose.

"It's possible I said that just because he led me to believe you'd have that reaction," Molly says, smiling over at them innocently and then having another sip of coffee.

" _John_ preached the benefits of open communication?" Alex says. He coughs and clears his throat and then coughs again. "Is this office in the same reality that it was when I left, or did I dimension hop?"

"Shut up, you nerd," John mutters. The only thing that keeps him from shoving Alex off of his lap is the mug in his hands. "I've never said it's not important, it's just fucking hard, okay?"

"I don't even have a good retort for how much of an understatement that is when it comes to you," Alex says, shaking his head. 

"You're a dick," John says.

"Yeah, but you still love me. Wanna know how I know? Cause you're gonna live in a shoebox with me."

John doesn't have a good retort for _that_ because...it's true.

"Oh, right!" Molly says. "That's the other reason I came in! Do you still need boxes?"

"Yeah," John says. "We're signing the new lease after work today."

"I've been hoarding paper boxes for you," she says. "Some of them are even the good kind with handles. They're in the closet in the resource center. I can help you with them now if you want."

Alex hops off of his lap. "I've got...things...." he says vaguely and John shoves him.

"They're empty!" he says. "Jesus christ, you're telling me you can't bring _empty boxes_ out to my car?"

"I would, but I've got _things_." He adds a nebulous hand gesture this time. "Love you, bye!" He kisses John quickly on the mouth, then ducks around Molly with an agility he rarely displays and slips out of the room before John can protest.

"God, what an asshole," John says, shaking his head. "I can't believe I'm gonna move in with that guy. Again."

"Like attracts like," Molly says. "Come on, asshole."

They pass through the lab, where Burr is working with headphones on and Alex is staring at a printed out copy of their workshop slide deck and pretending to be busy, and then head out into the hallway. 

"Anyway," John says. "Text me before you head over there tonight and I'll let you know what we're up to. I'm relatively sure my plan is gonna work a lot better than yours or Alex's suggestion, so."

"Yeah," Molly says slowly. "Wait...." She's stopped walking and John has to take a few steps backward to be level with her again. Her eyebrows are pinched together. "Did Alex say before--did Alex say before that he met you at the Frog?"

John nods slowly. "Yeah, last August."

"You met Alex Hamilton last August," Molly says flatly. "What the hell do you mean, you met him last August?" 

"I mean...I met him last August?" John says hesitantly. "I...mean that. With those words."

"Seriously?" Molly says.

"Yeah. How did you not know that?"

"I don't know!" Molly says. "I just assumed! I met you two together and you were already about 900% too much. You're telling me that when I met you, you had only just met each other? You were living together!"

"Well...yeah," John says. He shifts his weight, his shoulders tensing up. "We met at orientation and Alex needed a place to stay, so...."

Molly shakes her head in wonder, then runs her hand through her hair, still looking floored. "That's fucking insane."

"Why is it insane?" John asks slowly.

"You don't just meet a guy and then immediately become married-level intimate with him." Molly throws her hands up in the air. "I just assumed you met at a conference or something and both started going here."

"So what?" John's voice gets a hair sharper than he intends and Molly holds her hands up placatingly. 

"I'm just saying," she says. "It's weird."

John scrubs at his face with his hands, forces himself to take a breath. This is Molly, she's his friend, he doesn't want to snap at her just because this whole topic makes him self-conscious and a little embarrassed. "You think I don't know that?" He drops his hands and sighs. "I've dated a lot of guys, Molly, and I've never done this before. I've never felt like this before. I never wanted to feel like this before. I never wanted someone to like me, to want me and need me this much. And then Alex happened." He shrugs. "I look at Alex and I see a future. I've never imagined a future with anyone else before."

Of course, there are _reasons_ for that, but that's a conversation that John really doesn't want to have. Ever, really.

"No, I get it," Molly says. She punches his arm lightly. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything. I didn't mean to piss you off."

"No, it's fine. It's alright." John punches her back. "I'm just like...very aware of what it looks like, I guess. And if I was on the outside looking in, I'd think it was strange too."

"It is a little," Molly allows. "But I've also seen what you guys are like together and it's not the way my high school BFF was with the boyfriend she immediately told me she was going to marry one day, you know? I kind of get it."

John shrugs. This whole conversation is making his skin prickle and his face heat up. Jesus, it's hard enough talking about this with Alexander.

" _Anyway_ ," he says, rolling his shoulders. "Maggie'll probably fall madly in love with you and then you'll understand it from the other side, too."

Molly's bark of laughter is rough and unexpected. "Yeah, I fucking wish."

"She will," John says with a confidence he doesn't quite feel. "How could she not?"

"You goddamn charmer," Molly says, shoving him good naturedly and heading down the hall, her face on fire. "Come on, let's go do this stupid thing."

"Right behind you," John says, and rushes to follow.


	3. Part One: II. my push and my shove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John moves boxes and Alex gets romantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title via The Weepies, sorry I continue to get my hippie folk pop garbage all over this story.

Herc shows up at the crack of dawn on Saturday to load up a U-Haul with boxes and furniture to bring over to the new place. It's the price of having Herc help them move--they need to be done by his 11am shift at the shop, so there's no time for dawdling. Not that there's much to move, somewhat surprisingly. Perspective keeps shifting how John feels about their belongings. It felt like they owned more shit than any two people should be able to amass in one apartment while they were packing, but seeing all the boxes fit in John's car and the U-Haul once they come back from dropping the furniture off makes it clear that they really don't have that many things. Walking all of those boxes up three flights of stairs has him back to believing that they should probably just throw everything in the dumpster because it's far too much.

They get it all done fairly quickly, however. They manage to take the bed, entertainment center, couch, and television over in one trip and then their dresser, table, and boxes in a second trip. John's entire body is wrung out and sore by the end of it, but it's worth it to be able to collapse in the air conditioning before the sun is even high in the sky.

Alex, who somehow avoided lifting anything heavier than a suitcase, is still loose-limbed and chipper. "You and Herc seemed like you had a good handle on moving the furniture, I didn't want to get in your way!" he insists. John hits him with a couch cushion.

They take a break from unpacking around lunch time. They haven't gone shopping yet, but at least three of their usual go-to take-out places are still within delivery range according to Foodler, so John orders some burritos and Alex fires up his laptop and flops onto the couch.

"I told the blog we'd do a live Q&A Saturday since I didn't have time to prep anything last night," he explains. "I can answer some questions while we're waiting for the food to come." He gives John his most charming smile. "You could help?"

"I see," John says. "You only want me when there's something in it for you."

"Patently untrue," Alex says. "I want you all the time. Constantly. Every second." He puts his laptop aside and grabs John's wrist, pulling him down onto the couch unceremoniously and then climbing on top of him. "Right now. Five minutes from now. Five hours from now. Five hours ago." He tucks John's hair behind his ear; John laughs breathlessly and tries not to squirm. Alex is joking, but he's also not, not at all, and John feels the same way and that knowledge is so heavy, sometimes, so enormous that he gets lightheaded.

John's sprawled sideways on the couch, half on his back and half pressed against the back of the couch, and Alex leans over and kisses him just once--soft and sweet--and then gets off his lap to fetch his computer again. John sits up, tucking a pillow behind his back and leaning against the arm. Alex wastes little time in sitting in front of him, shifting them both around until their legs are tangled together and Alex's back is against John's chest. He opens his laptop again and starts preparing his blog post. John has little choice in his own entertainment from his position, so he pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens up the latest stupid puzzle game he's obsessed with.

Alex's followers are, predictably, ready with dozens of questions once he puts the post up. They range from asking his opinions about some new research to looking for advice applying to parapsych programs. There are a few things that Alex has to google to double-check, but most of the answers are pulled straight from his brain. Alex's recall astounds John--he just _knows_ things. He can rattle off specs and statistics and sometimes even direct quotes from academics. It's ridiculously sexy, even if admitting as much makes him feel like a gigantic nerd.

There are a few questions that he pushes off to John--stuff specific to photography and video and the various hardware and software involved in it. There's one about Harvard, too, that John answers, and he adds his own thoughts to some of Alex's answers.

"This one's you," Alex says, pointing at the screen. ParaKnits70 has asked, _This might be a J question, but do you have any experience with those new Panasonic microcameras? I've heard mixed things about the quality._

Alex hits reply and quickly types, _Definitely a J question. I'm handing the keyboard off for a J answer._

John sits up a little more and hooks his chin over Alex's shoulder so he can better see the screen as he types his reply, the laptop still resting on Alex's thighs. He has quite a few observations and thoughts about the equipment in question, and probably the answer doesn't need to be five paragraphs long, but John spends a lot of time around Alex and his verbosity is occasionally contagious.

Alex turns his head to kiss his cheek once he's finished, then replaces his hands on the keyboard and tackles a few more questions. When he finishes the second one, a reply to John's microcamera question pops up and Alex scrolls back up to it.

ParaKnits70 writes, _oh my god, J is a lifesaver, seriously. Any chance he's single, haha?_

Alex smirks and turns his head just enough to see John's reaction, then types, _J is very, very not single._

"That's okay, right?" Alex says. "I mean--I can tell her it's none of her business?"

In response, John pulls his phone out again and takes a photo from about the height of Alex's shoulders. It shows the top of the laptop and the tangled sprawl of their feet and legs, and he shows it to Alex.

"Is _that_ okay?" John asks. "Your anonymity is a bigger deal than mine."

Alex's half-smile is sweet. "Definitely okay. There's a hell of a lot of subtext in my blog entries--I'm surprised it's even a question."

John airdrops the picture to Alex's laptop and then watches as Alex inserts it into the comment. _The scene at the new Skeptic Refuted HQ for today's Q &A Saturday. (Photo courtesy of J)_, he writes beneath the picture. He pauses for a moment and then adds, _(Ghost socks also courtesy of J on my birthday, because I love him, but he's an asshole.)_

He turns to John again and looks a little more shy this time. "Is that also okay?"

John hides his smile in the crook of Alex's neck. "Perfect."

Alex hesitates for just a moment before he hits "Post Comment," and then laughs almost nervously.

"I don't know why that feels like such a big deal," he says. "It's so clear to anyone who's been reading closely that we've been dating for, like, months. I call you 'my J.' They know we live together, you guest posted when I was sick, you steal my phone all the time...it's definitely there."

"No, I know what you mean," John says. "It's like coming out all over again." He's only exaggerating slightly--it is a little nerve-wracking. Alex is a secret parapsych rockstar. He knows there are scores of people who have crushes on him without ever seeing his face--he knows because he was one of them once upon a time. John's been doing photos for the site and occasionally guest posting on topics within his expertise since last October, but there's being Athenodorus' photographer and then there's being Athenodorus' boyfriend. "Guess it's serious now if you're introducing me to your readers."

"Was there ever a time it wasn't serious?" Alex asks.

John wraps his arms around Alex's waist and pulls him closer. "No, I guess there wasn't."

Alex answers a few more questions, avoiding clicking back up to the rapidly exploding thread confirming their relationship. John gets a call that their food has arrived in the middle of it, so he slides off the couch and goes down to the lobby to pick it up. When he comes back upstairs, Alex has flopped over onto his stomach and is scrolling through what John presumes is the comment thread.

"Food," John says unnecessarily.

"I don't understand how so many of these people are surprised a) that we're together, but more shockingly, b) that I'm queer," Alex says. "I fucking talk about it all the time."

"You know straights," John says. He puts the bag of food on top of a nearby box for want of a better option. "It's fine when we're sexless concepts, but once actual romance or sex comes into the picture, we're flaunting our lifestyle."

"Fuckin' heteros," Alex mutters, shaking his head. "I'm gonna put on some coffee cause I've got to moderate the shit out of these comments." He jumps up and then pauses mid-stride. "...where's the coffeemaker?"

"There's a box labelled 'coffee' over there somewhere," John says. He grabs his burrito out of the bag and gestures towards the stack of boxes closest to the kitchen entrance. "Good luck!" 

John flops onto the couch and pulls Alex's computer onto his lap. Most of the comments are benign, things like, "Awww!" or "Congrats!" He separates the rest into five categories: fellow queers who are excited by the confirmation ("ha! my gf and i have been debating whether you're a couple for ages, you guys argue the exact same way we do!"), straight women who border on fetishizing them ("OH. MY. GOD. YOU TWO. ARE SO CUTE!!! I CANNOT GET OVER IT, I LOVE YOUR RELATIONSHIP!"), straight people who are over-compensating to prove how not homophobic they are ("Good for you! I don't have any problem with gay folks--to each their own."), homophobic shits trying to hide their homophobia behind politics ("Do you really need to bring your lifestyle into your work like this?"), and homophobic shits that don't care to hide their homophobia at all ("That's just fucking gross.").

It's just about the spread that John would have predicted, to be honest. Alex has a brutal comment moderation policy--before they met, John had several of his comments deleted for starting shit with other posters, even--and all the shitty comments are likely to be gone once he sits down to start seriously reading through them, but John might twist his arm into keeping some of the off-topic but particularly sweet ones. One girl responded with "Haha, my girlfriend bought me the same socks for my birthday. She's also an asshole. We're wearing them right now, actually," and attached a photo of the two of them wearing mismatched socks, one ghosts and one striped each. Another says, "I hope this doesn't sound weird, but I'm also bi and also starting my PhD and I've also got a huge crush on the photographer I work with, so this gives me hope!"

Alex eventually returns with coffee and lunch, triumphant, and the two of them look through both the comments and some little conversations that have popped up on Twitter. Alex apparently takes this transparency about their relationship as an excuse to dial up the innuendo exponentially, which is only mildly annoying, in the scheme of things. Eventually, they pull themselves away and get back to unpacking. Once again, John is considering just tossing whole boxes into a dumpster because there's no way they need all this stuff and unpacking it is taking forever.

"I'm done!" he declares late in the evening, long after the sun has gone down and they've taken a break for dinner.

"Objectively, you're not," Alex says from under the kitchen sink, where he's making room for their recycle bin.

"I am for today," John clarifies. "I'm taking a shower and then crashing for the night. I've got reading I want to do."

"We haven't even put the bed together yet," Alex says.

"So we'll sleep on the mattress and boxspring on the floor," John says. "We slept on a pullout couch for a week when you first moved in with Laf."

Alex closes the cabinet under the sink and stands up, stretching. "Okay, if you're quitting for the day, I'm quitting for the day. I should check in on the internet again anyway."

"It's only our first day," John says. "We've got plenty of time to unpack this shit."

Luckily, he's already had the foresight to unpack their bathroom boxes. He grabs a towel from the linen closet and makes sure that all of his various bottles are installed in the shower, then turns the water as hot as he can stand it. As the water rushes over his skin, he can feel the grime and exhaustion of the day melting away. They actually made good progress today. It probably won't be more than another day or two to completely finishing unpacking, and that's factoring in lots of time for breaks and going to the lab and having dinner with the Washingtons. By this time next week, it will feel like they've always been here.

Once he's done washing, he stays under the spray for another few minutes, just letting the heat of the water seep into his skin and relax his sore muscles. He feels warm and loose and tired and satisfied with a day's work when he gets out, and wraps himself in a towel to go find something that might pass as pajamas.

"Hey," he calls out towards the living room, "when I'm dressed, why don't we--"

He stops abruptly when he realizes that Alex is in the bedroom in front of him, in a nest of pillows and blankets in the middle of their mattress, surrounded by...candles?

"What kind of gay shit is this?" John asks.

"I'm _seducing you_ ," Alex says, pouting. John realizes, too, that Alex is stripped of everything but his boxers, with his hair down and his glasses on and a bottle of wine sitting on the floor near the bed with two paper cups.

"Where did you even get candles?" John asks. There are about a dozen in all, some sitting on boxes or furniture and others on the ground.

"They were under the sink, the last tenant must have left them," Alex says. "What does it matter, that's not the point." 

John begins to smile slowly. "You're...really cute," he says.

Alex, in contrast, scowls. "You're not putting any effort into this seduction. We're supposed to be christening the new apartment, here."

"What do you expect me to do?" John asks. "I wasn't let in on this plan until about thirty seconds ago."

Alex scowls again, his nose wrinkling under his glasses. "I dunno, strip or something?"

John drops his towel and shrugs.

"You could have put a little more effort into it than that!" Alex throws his hands up in the air.

"How?" John asks. "Literally all I'm wearing is a towel because you ambushed me on my way out of the shower. I could be sexy if I had five minutes to think about it."

Alex crosses his arms "Okay. Take five minutes to think about it."

"....what, now? With you watching?"

"Do you need _privacy_ to think sexy thoughts?"

"I need five minutes away from you so I forget how annoying you are and can focus on why I like you."

In truth, John could jump Alex right now. He can jump him most times, really, with very little encouragement. But seeing Alex get worked up about dumb shit like this makes him almost embarrassingly cute. John still has a big stupid crush on Alex and it's at its worst when he's flustered.

"You're such an asshole," Alex mutters.

"Blow out the fucking candles on the floor before we burn the apartment down," John warns him.

"And a killjoy."

And then John is on him, cradling his face and pulling him in for a kiss.

Alex tries to keep up his pout for a good three seconds, which is three seconds longer than John thought he would manage. He melts against John after that, uncrossing his arms and instead wrapping them around John and pressing closer. For a moment, John forgot that they were both already almost completely stripped. He's still damp, even, warm where Alex's skin is cool from the air conditioning.

"So," Alex says, "did you want me to blow out the candles or...?"

"I've got something you can blow, all right...."

Alex groans at the pun, and John lifts him off his feet and tosses him onto the mattress in response. As Alex squawks indignantly, John quickly blows out the candles on the floor and then joins him on the bed, kneeling next to him as he fights to get his bearings.

"How do you still have the energy to do that after moving shit all day?" Alex grumbles. He's playing at put out over being manhandled, but the tent in his boxers tells a different story.

"I'm very strong," John says, shifting to straddle him.

"Yeah, you don't need to remind me." Alex runs his fingers from John's shoulder down his chest and over his stomach, stopping to grip the ridge of his hip. "You really don't need to remind me."

John smirks. "What," he says, leaning forward to spread his hands over Alex's rib cage, "do you want?"

"I hadn't planned it that thoroughly," Alex murmurs, distracted by dragging his finger in abstract patterns across John's skin. His freckles--he's connecting his freckles, that must be it.

"You, not plan something thoroughly?" John says. He tweaks one of Alex's nipples and he hisses. "That doesn't sound like you."

"I can improvise," Alex insists. As if to prove his point, he reaches up and grabs a handful of John's wet hair, yanking it downward. John's back arches and his breath gets caught in this throat as his vision whites out for a moment. He thinks he makes a noise, but he can't be sure. His whole body is shivery with pleasure when Alex lets go, his dick throbbing, his nipples tight and hard against his chest, his breath coming in pants.

"Fuck," he wheezes. He wasn't expecting that and definitely wasn't expecting Alex to pull so _hard_. He feels drunk on endorphins and he hasn't even come yet.

"That we can't do," Alex says. He takes off his glasses and tosses them out of harm's way, then tugs John down and towards him until they're lying chest to chest, with John balanced on his elbows on top of him. "I know there's lube somewhere, but we didn't label the box and I eventually gave up. There might be lotion in the bathroom? And we're not fucking dry, it took us about ten seconds to regret that last time."

"I remember," John says, still panting. "My ass was there."

"Forget your ass, I swear to god I got a fucking friction burn on my dick. I'm just saying--"

John kisses him to shut him up, not that it will likely work for long. Nor would John want it to, really. Alex's chatter is one of those things that turns from innocuous to hot the moment they start making out. It's stupid--half the time he's not even saying anything _sexy_ , but just Alex sitting there, talking, with his hands and mouth all over John's body, is enough to make him dizzy with want.

John kisses him for the moment, though, sucks on his lower lip, bites it, swallows his gasp when the nip makes him cry out. He drags his dull fingernails down Alex's back and slips his hand under his waistband, squeezing his ass and pressing his hips up to meet John's. He wraps his legs around John's waist, pulling them that much closer together, and John moves on to kissing his throat.

"If you leave a mark," Alex says _seconds_ after John moves away from his mouth, "don't make it look really trashy."

John sucks hard, far above Alex's collar, in response. Alex's body goes stiff and his toes curl at the small of John's back.

"What was that?" John murmurs right against his neck.

"Do whatever the fuck you want, I don't give a shit," Alex says breathlessly.

John laughs and goes back to kissing him, to shivering when he runs his nails over John's scalp, to pressing and poking and pinching every spot that makes Alex gasp and hiss and moan. He strips off Alex's boxers and tosses them away, leaving them pressed together fully, skin on skin. He loves the feel of Alex's skin under his palms, warm and soft, the way that Alex's chest presses against his own when they breathe in sync, the way Alex just seems to _fit_. Under his hands, against his body, burrowed into his side on the couch--puzzle pieces that click together, but more than that. They fit on all sides, from all angles. There's no wrong way for them to be close.

"I really love you," he says quietly, his forehead pressed against Alex's as they go back to exchanging lazy kisses. The light in Alex's eyes twists into something else, from mirth to tenderness, just like that.

"I love you too," Alex tells him with unadorned candor.

"I feel like this should be special, our first night in the new place, but I'm fucking wiped," John admits. That has Alex sliding back towards mirth.

"Is that a hint that you want me to do all the work?"

"I mean, I'm never gonna say no to you doing all the work, but instead of actually _doing anything_ you just sit there and _talk_...."

Alex rolls his eyes, but he still takes the bait and flips them. Or tries to flip them. It doesn't go as smoothly as he'd like and then both end up sprawled on their sides, half hanging off the mattress, and when John starts laughing, they get even more tangled together.

"Gotta do everything myself around here," he says, and rolls onto his back, hauling Alex up on top of him. As put out as he was by John's laughter, Alex is smug and happy from his new position, hands spread across John's chest. He leans over, hair falling around them in a dark curtain, and kisses John hard, teeth clicking together before Alex's close sharply around John's lip. When John opens his mouth to gasp at the jolt of pain, Alex is right there, kissing his open mouth, licking the back of John's teeth, grinding down on top of him.

"God," John gasps when Alex moves on to his throat.

"At your service," Alex murmurs, which is so much worse than any stupid line that John has ever used, but he's not really in a position to complain about it now. He closes his eyes and focuses instead on Alex's mouth, the warm trail down his throat. He focuses on the bright pain of Alex's teeth on his collarbone, the rough drag of Alex's thumb across his nipple, the sting of Alex's nails in his hip. He focuses on Alex's cock, hard and hot and pressed between them, sliding across his stomach as Alex moves, leaking just enough to leave a damp trail that makes him shiver.

He rakes his nails across Alex's shoulders and presses his body up into the warm weight above him. Alex presses down at the same time, and John can't tell if it's a happy accident or a calculated move, but the sheer pleasure of the sensation catches them both off guard. They're rutting, then, out of rhythm and off-kilter, pressing their bodies together as hard and fast as they can. John tries to bite back a moan and then remembers, distantly, that they don't have to be quiet anymore. He lets the noise out, low and loud, and it startles Alex into stillness. His eyes go big and wide.

"Holy hell, you're hot," he gasps, but he's still frozen and staring. " _Fuck_ , make that sound again."

So John yanks him down until their hips align and then he does. He would have done it without prompting because it feels good to know that he _can_.

"First night here," John murmurs. "We'll just go real simple. First night, real simple." He reaches down between them and wraps his hand around their dicks, squeezing them together and not even trying to swallow the gasp that hiccups out in concert with Alex's sharp curse.

"Yeah," Alex pants. "Real...simple." He wraps his arms around John, threading his fingers into John's hair, and pulls him close. John tries not to let himself get distracted; he strokes their cocks, moving slowly at first and picking up speed as Alex's breathing and heartrate increase. 

"Simple," John repeats, but he can hear the strain in his own voice, the tremor behind his words as he struggles to concentrate on speaking instead of giving himself over to sensation of Alex's dick rubbing against his own. "Back to basics. New...new place...gotta start from...scratch...."

"Oh god, shut up," Alex hisses. He yanks on John's hair, which does the trick--John bites his own lip so hard that he almost draws blood and then buries his face in the crook of Alex's neck as his movements get jerky and out of sync. He's struggling not to come before Alex does, for practical purposes if nothing else, but Alex's hands in his hair always does it for him and he's right there on the edge, his vision blurry and his blood rushing through his ears and all of his nerve endings alight. Alex is too, though--he can make that out through his own haze, so he does his best to push him over.

"Come on," he whispers in Alex's ear. "Baby, come on, come on--"

" _Shit._ "

"Yeah, yeah, that's it, come on, give it to me, Alexander...." John doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, but apparently it does the trick. Alex curses again, a high whine of a noise, and then he's coming, his whole body stiff in John's arms.

Which is a relief, honestly, because if John doesn't come soon he's going to lose his mind.

Alex is still dazed and slumped heavily on top of him, but John manages to wiggle into enough range of motion to push himself that much further, to go just a little longer until finally, _finally_ , he's coming too, the world going warm and splotchy and bright.

It's hard to move, after. John is comfortable and exhausted and he has Alex on top of him. Even better, Alex regains enough of his senses to find his damn towel and wipe them both down fairly well.

"I was gonna shower too," Alex murmurs, yawning and resting his head on John's chest. "But this is nice."

"Mmhm," John says. He's considering getting up to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. He doesn't even have to put on clothes--it's their place now, there's no one else to be flustered or offended.

"We should probably christen the rest of the rooms too, right?" Alex says. "Maybe you should join me in the shower now that I've gotten you all dirty again." He waggles his eyebrows, the soft hairs of the one on the left tickling John's chest as it moves.

"I'm fucking exhausted," John says. "Sorry, babe--some of us carried boxes all day."

"You wouldn't have to do any of the work," Alex promises him, tapping his fingers enticingly, low on John's belly. John suppresses a shiver--he doesn't want to give Alex any ideas. As appealing as he finds the idea of Alex taking over and getting him off while John sits back and relaxes, even standing upright again seems out of his reach. Plus, his dick might _want_ to be interested, but John doubts he could get it up without at least a little sleep first.

"Rain check for tomorrow morning," John says around a yawn. Alex's deep sigh in response rumbles against John's chest, but he doesn't move, either. 

"Great, now I've gotta find the motivation to stand up and shower," he grumbles.

"Have you considered--"

The rest of John's _very witty_ rejoinder is cut off by a thump from upstairs that shakes their entire apartment. John and Alex both freeze in the moment that follows. Before either of them can comment, there's a second thump, then something that might be very heavy footsteps moving across the floor.

"What the fuck?" Alex says faintly.

"Maybe that room is directly above ours," John says, but it still seems way louder than necessary. He can feel each footfall in the vibration of the mattress.

More stomping from above them, this time at a faster pace and accompanied by a distinctly female cadance shouting...something. They can hear the rise and fall of the words, the rhythm, but the actual content is too muffled for them to hear. The other person upstairs, likely a dude, shouts back. And then there's stomping and shouting and John's surprised the light fixture doesn't fall on their heads.

"There's your motivation to take a shower," John says. "Maybe it'll be quieter in the bathroom."

Alex stares at the ceiling, frowning. "That sounds like wishful thinking." He glances over at John. "And that doesn't help you much, unless you've decided to join me after all?"

John almost feels bad dashing his hopes. "I think I'm tired enough that I'll manage to pass out despite the noise," he admits.

So Alex groans and gets to his feet to the tune of whatever world-shaking argument is happening upstairs. John rearranges the sheets and blankets, pulled askew in their enthusiasm earlier, and flops on his back, willing sleep to come. Even keeping his eyes open is a struggle, so it should be easy to slip into sleep, even as the walls and ceilings around him shake.

It's not.

John turns this way and that, curling up on his side, on his stomach, on his other side, flopping flat on his back in the middle of the mattress. His entire body hurts, his brain is sluggish and dragging, his eyes are heavy, but he keeps being pulled away from giving into sleep by the goddamn thumping and stomping from the floor above them.

He bleakly considers the couch in the living room. He's a sentimental asshole and he likes the idea of him and Alex spending their first night together in their first apartment together in their bed. He doesn't want to give that up, but he's also not going to be able to sleep in here, apparently, until the stomping around stops. And, if he stretches his thinking, there's a certain kind of symmetry in spending the first night in their new place in the first bed they ever shared. They spent a week on that sofa bed before they bought a real one, so maybe this is fate.

He wraps himself in a blanket and grabs his pillow as he stumbles to his feet to trudge out into the living room. Sleep is so close....

...except it's not. If anything, the living room is louder than the bedroom. The same stomping and shouting, the same shaking walls. If anything, it's maybe louder in here.

"Holy shit," John murmurs to himself. He's very tempted to drop to the floor and have a tantrum; only the fact that a tantrum would require more energy that he doesn't have stops him.

Instead, he stumbles back into the bedroom and drops the blanket, dragging himself over to a suitcase. The clothes he throws on don't precisely match--the plaid of his flannel shirt and the plaid of his pajama pants are definitely clashing--but he doesn't give a shit. It's good enough to climb--fucking _climb_ \--the stairs to the fourth floor and ask their upstairs neighbors to quiet down.

Alex comes out, still dripping, while John is trying to find his left flip-flop. 

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Going upstairs," John mutters. "It's louder in the living room. I can't sleep."

"Give me two seconds," Alex says. "I'll go up with you."

The moment they step outside of their apartment and close the door, there's blissful silence. John is too distracted by how quiet it is to think too hard about that, but Alex frowns at the door, opening and closing it a few times, the thudding cutting out every time the door is closed again.

"It's probably a fucking acoustics thing, let's just go before I fall asleep right here," John says, grabbing Alex's hand and dragging him towards the stairs.

John works on mustering a polite smile on the trudge up, and keeps it in place as he knocks on their upstairs neighbors' door. Much like outside their own apartment, the hallway is silent. John can't even hear footsteps approaching the door, but it opens up all the same.

The man on the other side of the door is a little taller and a little stockier than John, and maybe a few years older. He's white and looks disgruntled at having to open the door.

"Yeah?" he asks gruffly.

"Hi," John says in his best _Just walking home, officer_ voice. "We're your new downstairs neighbors. We just moved in today."

The dude is unmoved and unmoving. A tall, skinny woman appears behind him, her hair bleached blonde, her shirt low-cut. "What's going on?" she asks.

"New neighbors," the guy grunts.

The woman peers at them over his shoulder and it's not until her eyes are lingering on him that John remembers that his shirt isn't buttoned. He resists the urge to tug it closed under her gaze.

"We were just, uh, trying to get some rest," John continues. "And I think the acoustics of the apartments are such that we can...kind of hear when you're moving around a lot?"

The guy blinks at him again.

"And we were hoping that, uh, maybe you could...be aware of that? During the evening hours?"

The guy still doesn't seem to care, but the woman says, "Oh, _of course_ , sorry. I think they skimped out on the insulation in this part of the building, we've heard it all before!" She laughs a high, fake laugh. "Sorry about that! And if you ever need _anything_...."

John doesn't let himself think about what she must be implying. "Great, awesome, thank you, we're pretty tired tonight," he says. "Uh, see you around!" Then he grabs Alex's hand and pulls him back towards the stairs before the conversation can be drawn out any further.

"Did you see her checking you out?" Alex asks, too loud in the quiet hallway.

"I'm already trying to scrub it from my brain, so thanks for bringing it up," John says. "Christ, hopefully they'll at least be _quiet_."

He opens the door to the stairs so fast he almost hits someone standing on the landing. 

"Whoa!" the girl says, leaning back.

"Jesus fuck, I'm sorry," John says. Alex slams into his back and he grunts.

"That's okay," the girl says, easing forward again. "You must be the new guys on three."

John nods. "Yeah, we just moved in today."

"You gotta watch out for these doors," she says. "They look like they're heavier than they really are."

"Got that," John says.

"And let me guess," she continues as if she hasn't heard him, "you're up here to tell 4F to quiet down?"

"Yeah," John says slowly.

"Good luck," the girl says. "I'm 5F. They never stop. I've literally changed my schedule to be closer to theirs so I can sleep at night. I suggest you invest in earplugs." Then, before John can react, she's past them and heading up the next flight of stairs. "Nice meeting you!" she calls over her shoulder.

"We didn't even exchange names," John says, stunned into stillness.

"Well, we know where she lives," Alex says. "Let's go back downstairs and try to get to bed before Upstairs and Mrs. Upstairs forget that they promised to be quieter."

"Yeah," John says, shaking his head. "Let's go before I fall down and can't get back up again."

"Especially cause there's no way I'm carrying you back to bed," Alex says, and they descend the stairs back to their apartment.


	4. Part One: III. it's kind of strange how we change orbit in our lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex drags his feet about going to a baseball game; John drags his feet about meeting Alex's foster brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter, I realized when I got to work this morning that I never made the images for the text messages, so I had to wait until this evening to post.
> 
> (As such, this chapter contains four large-ish in-line images.)
> 
> Title from The Weepies' "Orbit."
> 
> And may I suggest you consider Javier Muñoz in the role of Ned Stevens?

John and Alex unpack slowly over the next few days, emptying boxes in between heading into the office and working on a couple easy cases with Burr. Unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Upstairs' promise of nighttime quiet lasts about as long as 5F implied. While Alex and John were able to get to sleep that first night, Upstairs has been stomping around at random hours every day since, sometimes shaking both of them out of a dead sleep. It's still the weirdest fucking thing, the way the noise carries or doesn't carry depending on where in the building they stand. Weird, but mostly annoying.

The next Sunday, though, it's not Upstairs that wakes them, but John's alarm, blaring cheerfully out of his phone, far too early for a weekend. John bounds right up once it starts, however--today, he and Herc are taking Alex to a baseball game. They've been looking forward to it all week.

Well, John and Herc have. Alex, on the other hand, groans when John opens the blinds. 

"You're acting like I'm bringing you to your fucking execution," John says. "You'll have your tablet, it's not like I'm ripping away your connection to the outside world and forcing you to watch the game. They have wifi at Citi Field. But I think being there you'll learn to appreciate the beauty of--"

Alex rolls over and lets out an obnoxious fake snore.

"Ha ha," John says. "You're an asshole."

"I'm an asshole who _loves you_ ," Alex says, lifting his head up to pout at John. "I'm an asshole who's agreed to spend a whole fucking day in the outdoors in _June_ when it's gonna be like, _ninety degrees_ because it's important to you."

Ugh, John hates how true all of that is. It's hard to be mad when he knows that, yes, Alex is doing something he hates because he knows how happy it will make John.

"I hate it so much when you have a right to be smug about something," John mutters. Alex beams at him and sits up, hugging him around the waist.

"I'm always right," he says, nuzzling John's shoulder.

"You're always a shithead," John says.

He leaves Alex in bed and heads to the kitchen, just as Mrs. Upstairs bellows and drops something hard enough that the water in the coffee carafe he's filling ripples and trembles. It seems they've woken up just in time to avoid being woken instead by today's circus.

John puts on coffee and shoves some stale-but-not-moldy bread into the toaster. He starts to throw together some stuff to bring into the city--water bottles, sunglasses, a back-up battery for Alex's iPad, some Clif bars and gummy bears that they can hopefully sneak past stadium security, a snapback for Alex which he will initially turn his nose up at and then eagerly accept once the sun is directly overhead--when Alex wanders out, frowning at his phone.

"Hey, so, I posted on Facebook that you were dragging me to a baseball game today," he says, looking up at John, "and Ned commented and asked if we had time to have dinner with him after? I guess he's living in Queens for the summer?"

John needs to think about that twice to process it. He knows, intellectually, that Alex has a foster brother living and going to school in the city, but the idea of meeting him never even crossed his mind. 

"Do you...want to?" John asks carefully. Alex doesn't talk much about about the Stevens family as his guardians, though he's chatty about working with Mr. Stevens at the paranormal shop he owned on the island. He knows that Ned helped get Alex into Columbia on very short notice, but that's about _all_ he knows.

"Sure," Alex says, shrugging. "I mean, as long as you want to. It's been like, a year since I've seen Ned. Which is weird, wow. Time is weird."

"Yeah, I'd love to," John says. Belatedly, he realizes, "Oh, fuck, but Herc. Is it okay if Herc comes with us?" Or maybe Alex already assumed Herc would be coming with them, given they're going to the game together. Maybe John's just the asshole for thinking of this as a family thing, as the closest thing to meet-the-parents either of them will likely ever have.

"Gotta ask him next," Alex says, but, as if on cue, there's a knock at their door. "Good timing."

It is, of course, Hercules waiting outside once John opens the door. He's in a Knicks t-shirt, which is at least the right colors, if not the right sport.

"Yo," he says. "I know I'm early, but I could hear my fucking cousins...."

He trails off and looks at the ceiling as Mrs. and Mr. Upstairs continue to shout and possibly move furniture.

"What the fuck?" he asks.

"Welcome to life in the shoebox," John says dryly.

"It's like this every day?" Herc asks.

"More or less," Alex says. "Hey, unrelated to domestic disturbances, do you have plans for after the game?"

"I actually wanted to talk to you about that," Herc says. "I don't want to bail on you, but Lizzie texted me last night. She's in town for a couple days and wanted to know if I'd be around for dinner tonight."

"Lizzie?" Alex perks up. "Like...?" He makes a vague, complicated gesture that involves pointing at John. Herc nods.

"One and the same," he says. "But if you guys have plans...."

"Actually," Alex says, "my foster brother just asked if we had time to have dinner with him after the game. So." He shrugs.

"Awesome," Herc says. "I'll tell Lizzie we're on for tonight. You kids gonna put on pants, or...?"

"You're early," John reminds him. "But yeah." To Alex he says, "It'll be quicker to share as long as you keep your hands to yourself."

"I can...probably do that," Alex says. "Let me just text Ned."

Both Alex and John manage to keep their hands to themselves for the length of a quick shower and they're on a train into the city not half an hour later. Alex spends the train ride furiously redlining an article for some journal and Herc plays a game on his phone. John sits between them with his eyes closed, attempting to ward off motion sickness. He's better on the subway, but it's still a long ride from Penn Station to Times Square to Citi Field. 

They're not even halfway there when Alex plucks the hem of John's 86' Hernandez jersey and then the hem of Herc's t-shirt.

"Hey," he says. "Same color, different teams. Is this a name thing? Like, the team changed its name?"

"Nah," Herc says. "I'm a Yankees fan. Don't own any Mets shit, so I'm going with another New York team as a neutral."

"And the Yankees are...?"

"The other New York baseball team," John says. "They play in the Bronx. Even you have to know who the Yankees are, you fucking lived in New York for two years."

Alex sniffs. "Well, sorry, I had other, more pressing matters to attend to and didn't have time for--"

John cuts him off. "Oh, please. If you spent two minutes paying attention instead of being like, performatively disdainful--"

"I'm not disdainful!" Alex insists. "I'm...."

John gives him a few seconds of silence before saying, "What?"

"...I don't know," Alex admits, "something that makes me sound better than disdainful."

"You two done?" Herc asks, elbowing Alex who bumps into John.

"Probably not," John says.

"You should be used to us by now," Alex adds.

"Y'all are meant for each other," Herc says, but he's smiling.

The rest of the ride to the stadium passes without incident and soon enough John is swept up into the giddy rush of going to a ballgame. The Mets are his team and have been since seeing their minor league club play out in Columbia when he was a kid, but he'd be just as excited about any game. Up in Cambridge, a guy in his fraternity had season Red Sox tickets and John bought a handful of games off of him, usually the ones no one else wanted. Sure, it's great to watch his team play and cheer them on, but for him, most of the time it's just the experience. He loves being in the ballpark and watching the game and sitting in the sun and feeling the energy of the crowd. It doesn't matter if it's major league or minor league or even high school baseball--there's not much outside of parapsych that makes John feel connected to the world around him, but baseball is pretty high up on the list.

He wants to share this with Alex, even though he knows he's destined for failure. Alex is a self-proclaimed indoor kid. He may ride his bike everywhere, but it's for practical reasons rather than any stab at regular exercise. He thinks John is weird for going to the gym and thinks he's insane for running when he can't get to the gym. There hasn't been a single sport that's caught his attention in almost a year of living with John and sitting on the couch while John watched whatever was in season. On top of all that, he's just kind of...a snob. He thinks sports are for people who don't have anything better to do, who aren't as engaged in academics and politics and intellectual pursuits as he is. Baseball is below him--all sports are below him--and he's unlikely to look up from his iPad the entire afternoon.

Still, he's here. He let John bring him here. And even if it's only because he loves John like crazy, that's still something.

Their seats are fine. Nothing fancy or expensive, but they have a nice clear view of the field from behind first base. John is a little embarrassed by how excited he is, grabbing Alex by the hand and pulling him through the concessions, babbling on about stats and players and games he went to as a kid. He winces internally the entire time--he sounds like a nerd and he _knows_ Alex doesn't actually care--but Alex just smiles and nods and holds his hand and lets John lead him around.

He's a little afraid that he's going to spend the entire time watching Alex and hoping he's not bored, but it only takes until the first run for the game to have John's full attention. He and Herc both get into it, cheering and groaning and spending way too much money on overpriced beer and popcorn. Midway through the Mets at bat in the fifth inning, John actually catches Alex watching _him_ , grinning.

"What?" John asks, glancing away from the field to get a better look at Alex's smile.

"Nothing," Alex says. "You're just...cute."

"Shut up," John says, knocking their shoulders together as he turns back to the game.

"I'm serious," Alex murmurs. He leans against John's side, tucking himself up against his shoulder. It's too hot to cuddle, really, but John doesn't push him away. "I like seeing you this happy. You're like...radiant. Your smile knocks me out."

John can feel his cheeks burning and he's sure Alex can see his flush. He clears his throat and takes Alex's hand in his own, squeezing it, but not saying anything more.

It's not a bad game overall. The first half is pretty damn exciting, with the Mets and the Braves trading off runs and the Braves inching ahead, only to be knocked back down, losing 10-8. Alex spends most of the game on his iPad, asking questions that have more to do with the history of baseball than the game they're watching, and napping in the sun with his head on John's shoulder, but he claims he had a good time as they pick their way through the crowd and back down to the street.

"So, do you want to come to another game in July?" John asks, biting back his smile.

"I--uh--if you want me to come with you, I'd be happy to go," Alex finally manages to say and John remembers why he's stupid in love with him.

They say goodbye to Herc at the subway, and John's mellow from the game starts to fray at the edges. It's not that he's nervous, meeting Ned, but something about it feels important. The funny thing is, he's pretty sure Alex doesn't see the significance at all. To Alex, this is just another lunch with his friend, another afternoon out with his boyfriend. To John, this is a tiny window into the life that Alex led before Morristown, before New York. This is a person who knew Alex when he was small and spent his adolescence with him. This is a person who watched Alex bloom from the shy, bookish know-it-all that he claims he was in his youth into...well, he's still kind of a know-it-all, but that's because he does. Alex is a genius, and Ned Stevens got to watch that genius blossom.

"Are you nervous?" Alex asks, frowning at John as they approach the restaurant where they're meeting Ned and John's pace slows considerably.

"I'm...something," John says vaguely.

"It's _Ned_ ," Alex says flatly. "He's like, the calmest, nicest, most unobtrusive person in the world. Like, I like him and all--he was my closest friend growing up--but he couldn't be judgemental or insulting if he tried. He'll love you just because you exist as a human being on this planet and you're not actively punching his teeth out."

"Yeah," John says, "I know. I'm just--it's fine."

"No," Alex stops walking and takes John's hands. "What's up?"

"It really is nothing, Alex," John insists. "It's just a little nerve-wracking, meeting someone who's known you for so long."

"There's no reason to be nervous," Alex insists. "I like Ned, but I love you. We grew up together, his parents took care of me after my mom died and there was that whole mess with fucking Peter and Uncle James, but if he gives you shit--which, to reiterate, he's incapable of doing--I have no problem walking out on him for good."

"I know, I know," John says. "Honestly, babe, it's not a big deal, it's just...a thing in my head."

"Well, you should get it out of your head," Alex says, and then takes John by the shoulders and kisses him soundly on the forehead. "Idiot."

"Shut up," John says, shoving him gently away, grinning.

Alex grabs his hand and drags him back towards the restaurant. "Not shutting up. Seriously, it's gonna be fine. Ned's like...the nicest dude. Too nice. It's gonna make him a great doctor, but it also makes him super boring, whereas someone like you or me is an asshole, which is much more interesting."

Ned is waiting outside the restaurant, a Middle-Eastern place in a basement under a yoga studio. John recognizes him immediately from his occasional replies to Alex's Twitter and the glances John occasionally takes at Alex's Facebook. He looks up as they approach and grins. He's got a great smile--it floors John a little, it's so genuine and bright. He's pretty cute.

"Alex!" Ned says, shoving his phone into his pocket. He opens his arms and Alex drops John's hand to accept a hug. 

"Hey, bro," Alex says. He's smiling a little too, the smile he uses when he's trying to hide how pleased he is. He lets go of Ned who holds him at arms' length and grins again, looking him over.

"You're looking good," Ned says. "You look...happy."

Alex ducks his head, smiling again. "I am pretty happy," he says.

It's funny, John never realized it looking at pictures, but Ned and Alex kind of look alike. Ned is taller and he has a goatee, which must _kill_ Alex, who can't grow facial hair for the life of him, but they have the same facial structure, the same warm brown eyes, the same hairline, the same chin, the same laugh lines when they smile. Ned has a wider nose and he holds himself a little differently, a little more openly. He smiles with his whole face, as opposed to Alex, who always kind of looks like he's either getting away with something or embarrassingly pleased. 

John reassesses. Ned's not just cute, he's distractingly good looking. He's the type of guy that John would have nursed a crush on for years without making a move because he's so far out of John's league.

Ned releases Alex and offers John his hand, grinning again. John, much to his horror, blushes as he shakes in greeting.

"John, this is my foster brother, Ned," Alex says. "Ned, this is my...."

He looks at John and trails off, thoughtfully, and as the seconds pass, John starts to get nervous. Alex is out to the Stevens family, John knows he is. Plus, his relationship status is on his Facebook and he posts a zillion pictures of John, clearly captioned romantically. He's referred to John as his boyfriend on Twitter frequently. It's not like Ned doesn't _know_ , so John's not sure why Alex is hesitating.

"No," Alex says quickly. He grabs both of John's hands in his own. John's discomfort must be clear on his face. "I just mean...I went to say 'boyfriend,' but that's really not it, is it? You're my boyfriend, but you're also my best friend and my business partner and my co-worker and my photographer and my roommate and lab mate and...there's just like...not a word for it. 'Boyfriend' didn't seem like enough." He turns to Ned and shrugs apologetically. "This is John, who defies easy categorization, but is basically the other half of my life."

"I've heard a lot about you," Ned says, smiling that megawatt smile, and Alex is so fucking lucky that he just made John swoon with that categorization bullshit, because otherwise, Ned would be giving him a run for his money. "I'm so glad we can finally meet!"

"Me too," John says. He doesn't mean to flash his bashful, flirty smile, but that's what comes out and he can tell Alex notices by the elbow in his ribs. "I have so many questions for you."

"Questions about what?" Alex asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Three guesses and the first two don't count, dumbass," John says. That earns him another elbow to the ribs.

"I mean, same, honestly," Ned says. "I can't believe you got him to go to a baseball game!" He laughs and throws an arm around Alex's shoulders.

"It involved a lot of bribery," John says.

"We do stupidass things for love," Alex says. Ned laughs again and lets go, leading them down to the restaurant. Alex takes John's hand to follow, and murmurs, "What the hell?"

"Nothing," John says. "He's just like...super my type. His Twitter and Facebook avatars don't do him justice."

"He's straight," Alex whispers.

"And you have my heart and soul locked in a little box to do with as you please," John whispers back. "So what does it matter?"

Alex looks inordinately pleased by that as they follow Ned inside and the host leads them to a table. It's a cute little place--everything is bright colors, stained glass, and mosaics. The chandelier hanging over their table is brass with blue and purple and red glass panels and the table is inlaid with purple and yellow tiles. Ned takes a seat on the outside of the table, letting the two of them slide onto the booth bench opposite him. Alex is still pointedly holding his hand, though he lets go once they're settled.

"How was the game?" Ned asks. John turns to look at Alex, one eyebrow raised, and Alex glares at him.

"Shut up," he says to John.

"I didn't say anything," John says.

Alex sighs and says to Ned, "I think our team won?"

Ned bursts out laughing, which makes John laugh a little bit too.

"I can't believe I thought even for a second that you would have paid attention," Ned says.

"He mostly fucked around on his iPad and took a nap," John says.

"And stared adoringly at _you_ , the love of my life, enjoying your afternoon," Alex says. He points at John accusingly, but John just grabs his hand and holds it, bringing it up to his lips to kiss his knuckles.

"Thanks for coming with me," he says, more earnest than he intends, and Alex's ire melts into a pleased smile.

"Anytime, baby," Alex says.

"More seriously," Ned says, "how have you been? How was your first year? I want to hear all about it--I want to hear all about both of you. John, tell me about yourself, what you do, where you grew up--I feel like Facebook and Twitter are such narrow views into your worlds!"

"This year was _perfect_ ," Alex says to start. "I don't even know where to begin."

"Start with that day I helped you bring your stuff to Penn Station and work forwards from there," Ned suggests, smiling with all his teeth. He smiles so big his eyes squint closed and it's so sweet that John smiles back automatically as Alex begins his story.

They take turns telling Ned all about their first year at Morristown, interspersed with a few facts about John's life. John asks lots of questions about Ned--he learns that Ned's finished his first year of med school at Columbia and he had a girlfriend for a little while, but they both decided to put it on hold because school was so intense. Ned gives Alex some updates from the island, a mix of good news from his parents and poor life choices from people that Alex apparently didn't like, based on the almost vicious schadenfreude he takes from each new anecdote.

It's the most he's ever heard Alex acknowledge his life before--the island where he grew up, the communities he bounced around in during his tumultuous childhood. John knows enough--that his father left, that his mother died, that his family was poor, that his brother abandoned him, that he was shuffled between relatives after his mother died, that the Stevens took him in and helped him get to America--but Alex has always been hazy on any details that aren't a very specific story from his youth or about the parapsych supply shop where he worked. Seeing him talk to Ned so easily about all of these little parts of his past makes John greedy, hoarding each new piece of knowledge away, letting each new story help shape the version of Alex's childhood he's building in his mind.

They get softer and more relaxed as they sip cheap cocktails and eat their dinners. They eat family style and the food is amazing; even as the place starts to fill up, the waiters don't rush them to finish. John finds that he likes Ned a lot, and not just because he's attractive. He's sweet and kind and his stories are funny and he seems to genuinely care about Alex and, by extension, John.

He gets up to use the restroom as they're finishing up dinner, and John watches him go with his head tilted to the side, then turns to Alex.

"I like him," he says decisively.

"I noticed," Alex says, but he's too full and pleased to really be as put out as he wants to sound.

"No, not that," John says, then amends, "Not just that. He's just...nice."

"I told you," Alex says. "No way he hates you, he loves everyone. He doesn't have a disgruntled bone in his body."

"Yeah, well, someone has to balance you out," John says, and Alex kicks him under the table. John scoops some baba ganoush up on a piece of pita and pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment.

"He looks a little like you," he says to Alex once he swallows.

Alex waves him off and focuses on separating the last of the shepherd's salad on his plate into its component parts and then eating it little by little, a forkful of cucumber, a forkful of tomato, a forkful of pepper....

"People say that all the time, but I think they're crazy," he finally says when he looks up and sees that John is still watching him expectantly. "Not all Latino guys look alike, you know."

John rolls his eyes. "Gosh, you're right, it's definitely me thinking that all Latino guys look alike. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I'm so confused to see your face staring back at me."

Alex gives him a flat look. "You know what I mean."

"I know," John says. God knows people have called them by each other's names enough times. Aside from being Latino and roughly the same height, they look nothing alike. "But I'm serious. You guys do look alike. But he's still so...different from you. He's like...sweet. And so much less intense." Alex's expression is oddly unreadable. "Which isn't a complaint. I love your intensity. You were right about him not being an asshole, and you know that's my favorite thing about you."

Alex smiles a little. "I do," he concedes, and leans over to kiss John sweetly. His mouth tastes cool, like fresh vegetables and lemon juice, with a sharp tang from the feta. He smiles against John's lips and pulls him closer. He doesn't try to deepen the kiss or do anything inappropriate for the middle of a restaurant, but he nuzzles close and wraps himself around John affectionately. John blames it on the cocktails, which are seven bucks until six pm. He doesn't discourage it, though, and when Ned comes back, they're pressed together and laughing about nothing.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he says.

"Just the effects of too much elderflower liqueur," John says.

"I think you mean the effects of not enough," Alex says. "It's only five--we should get at least one more drink in before they're not half price any longer."

"Sounds good to me," Ned says. "Let's order some dessert."

John and Alex spend dessert trading off telling Ned about some of the more spectacular hauntings they've encountered over the past year. John gets the impression that Ned doesn't particularly care about the hauntings so much as he's amused watching the Alex-and-John Show, or maybe just seeing Alex so cheerful and animated.

They've been in the restaurant for over two hours by the time they finally get the check and get ready to leave. Alex slips away to use the restroom, leaving John and Ned alone at the table.

"It was really nice to meet you," John says.

"You too," Ned says. "And honestly--I would have loved to have dinner to catch up with Alex on his own, but I was really excited for a chance to meet you. The way Alexander talks about you...." He looks away thoughtfully, scratching his temple. "I don't mean this in an offensive way," he finally continues. "I love Alex like a brother, I do. But I've never seen Alex care about someone like this."

John's not entirely sure what he's supposed to say to that. "Um...."

"That sounds so rude, I'm sorry," Ned says quickly. He looks a little mortified. "I don't mean--I just mean, when we were growing up? He never had a boyfriend or a girlfriend and he kind of looked down on those of us who did, like it was a waste of his time. He broke a lot of hearts by dropping girls--and a couple boys, but mostly girls--as soon as it was clear they viewed whatever they were doing as a relationship and not like, an advantageous physical arrangement."

John can actually hear those words in Alex's voice. God, Alex was an asshole. Is an asshole. "That is...not surprising to me."

Ned relaxes a little. "Yeah," he says. "It was the same in college, as far as I know. And then I was here and he was in New Jersey and suddenly I'm seeing on Facebook and Twitter, 'This is my new friend John,' and then 'John is my boyfriend' and 'John and I live together' and 'I'm in love with John' and 'I've tied myself to John for the rest of my life....'"

"I believe that last one was, 'I can't believe I've tied myself to this idiot for the rest of my life,'" John says dryly. "And in my defense, we flipped a coin before trying to get into that crawlspace, so it could have just as easily been him stuck there, so he had no higher ground to stand on when posting that picture."

Ned laughs and shakes his head. "Of course." He sobers up then and adds, "But, picture aside, you are, right?"

"We are what?" John asks.

"Engaged?"

John has, thankfully, just put his drink down, so he's not wearing it and neither is Ned, despite his compulsive sputtering.

"Oh god," John says. "Oh god--no. No, no, no, we're not."

Ned doesn't relax, exactly, but something about him is less tense. Not like he was afraid Alex was making a poor decision, but more like he was hurt Alex had kept that decision from him. "I just assumed, I'm sorry," Ned says. "The way he talks...well, he's always talked about the future like that, like it's a sure thing, and it's hard to tell when he's bragging about something because he's already done it and when he's bragging about something because he's positive he will do it eventually."

"This is an eventually thing," John says firmly. 

"But not a probably thing?" Ned asks, smiling a little.

"No, not a probably thing," John concedes. It doesn't make him as sick as it used to, thinking about the future. Thinking about his future with Alex. "Anyway. Um. Back to the point. He's mentioned that he's never really done the relationship thing before."

"It's more than that, though," Ned says. He looks down at his plate and nudges some stray pistachios around the honey residue with his fork. "Even my family--he was a part of our family, but he always kept himself separate. He wouldn't let himself fully absorb into it. He wouldn't let my parents adopt him. Which was--he'd been through a lot, but it kind of stung." He looks up at John and John feels frozen by his gaze. It's so open, but different from the way that Alex is open. Alex is open with his emotions almost defiantly, so sure that he has nothing to hide. Ned is open because he trusts John to see him vulnerable and understand. "I always wanted a brother. Or a sister, really, but my parents had, um. Well, they lost a baby boy, before I was born. SIDS."

John feels hot from head to toe, and then cold. A million things are welling up in his throat, fighting to get out, and he has to push them all down, shove them out of the way. He squeezes his hands, lets his nails dig into his palms, the pinpricks of pain sharp and centering.

This isn't his story. It's not even close to his story. 

He breathes deeply and manages to say, "I'm sorry," without doing or saying anything more embarrassing.

"I never knew him, obviously," Ned says. "And that's not so much the point as...I used to imagine what it would be like to have a brother, and then I got Alex, but Alex...he didn't want us like that. And I don't blame him--the family experiences he'd had up to that point had been pretty terrible. But seeing him with you--he lights up in a way I've never seen before. In a way I never imagined he could. I never would have guessed in a million years that he could love someone the way he seems to love you."

John listens to that, turns it over in his head, tries to find something to say.

"I'm sorry," Ned says. He's embarrassed. "That's so rude. It sounds so rude. I don't mean it that way. I know he's capable of love and affection. It just seemed to me like he'd spurned it all together and then all of a sudden...." He trails off. "God, I sound like an asshole."

"You don't," John says firmly. He reaches across the table and squeezes Ned's hand. "You really don't. I get it. And. Um. I'm glad, I guess. That he and I--that he opened himself up for me. Both for my sake, because I'm really fucking good at pinning all my hopes and dreams on dudes who will never love me back, and for his, because he deserves to have that kind of love and happiness. And I think he has it with me. I know I have it with him." Ned smiles at him. "I'm sorry he couldn't be what you wanted him to be."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," Ned assures him. "It was a long time ago. And it's not like he broke my heart or abandoned me--we're still friends. We're still close. We chat on Facebook, we text on birthdays--which doesn't sound like a lot, of course, but--"

"--but it's Alex, so that's pretty significant," John agrees. John can't think of anyone else from before Morristown that Alex actually bothers to speak with regularly, or even semi-regularly. In the Alexander Hamilton Hierarchy of Affection, Ned ranks pretty high.

Alex reappears, arguing with someone else as they emerge from the hallway, too far away to hear. The other guy holds up his hand in Alex's face dismissively and then stomps off. For a second, John is sure Alex is going to follow to continue the argument, but he glances back at the table and then sighs and returns. John's face hurts from smiling like an idiot.

"Let me guess, some guy talking shit about ghosts?" Ned asks. 

Alex shakes his head. "Immigrants," he says. "We're in a fucking Lebanese restaurant, what the fuck?"

"People are hypocrites," John says. "Also, I'm fucking crazy about you."

"I know," Alex says. He slides back into the bench and kisses John on the nose. John laughs in surprise. "Time to go?"

"Time to go," John agrees, smoothing Alex's hair behind his ear.

It still takes them forever to actually leave. They get up and go outside, but saying goodbye to Ned stretches out ten, fifteen, thirty more minutes. They haunt the stoop of the yoga studio, closed on Sundays, sharing one last story and one last joke and one last memory as the sun begins to sink lower in the sky. Ned takes a few selfies with both of them and John takes a couple posed pictures of Alex and Ned for Ned's family and then a couple candids when they're not looking for himself. Ned, damn him, even manages to get one of Alex and John by flustering John into saying yes. John hates having his picture taken, he really does, but he hates it a little less with Ned cracking jokes as he lines up the shot and Alex tucked up against his side like he belongs there.

When they finally head back towards the subway, Ned hugs them both tightly.

"I'm so happy to have met you," he says to John.

"Me too," John says. He means it.

"Brother," he says to Alex, opening his arms, and Alex grins and hugs him. "We have to do this more often. You're not that far away."

"I'll get your number from him," John says. "I'll text you the next time we're in the city. And definitely let us know if you're ever in Morristown."

"Maybe I'll make a special visit," Ned says. He holds Alex at arms' length again, grinning. "I've missed you."

"I've...missed you too." John can tell Alex means it. He can tell that he's _surprised_ he means it.

"Stay in better touch," Ned says.

"I'll try," Alex says, and they hug one more time before he and John wave goodbye and head for the subway.

They're still a little tipsy and full, even half an hour after the last of their half-priced cocktails, and Alex is a warm, affectionate weight against John's side all the way back into Manhattan. He's uncharacteristically quiet, playing with John's fingers and then with the strap of his backpack. On the NJ Transit train back to Morristown, they manage to get two whole rows of seats facing each other on the mostly empty car. They sit next to each other and stretch their legs out to the other seat, Alex up against the window and periodically staring out into the sunset as they start the ride home. John's about to ask him if he had fun when his phone lights up in his hand.

 _@Ned__Stevens is now following you!_ , says the screen. John opens the Twitter app to follow Ned back, just as a tweet he's tagged in comes up, also from Ned.

 _So great to spend the day with @a_ham and @notlawrence!_ it says, and attached is one of the selfies, one of the pictures of Ned and Alex, and the picture of Alex and John. The selfie is cute--Ned's got his megawatt smile, of course, and Alex is smirking and John is laughing, his face half-turned down, which is honestly the way he likes it. The one of him and Alex isn't bad either, as much as he hates to admit it. Alex has his arm draped over John's shoulders and John's reaching up to hold his hand and they're close and smiling and, mostly, they just look...happy.

John doesn't know that he's ever seen a picture of himself where he looks this happy. He certainly hasn't seen one in the past ten years, at least.

Next to him, Alex's phone buzzes with a new text. It's probably Ned--there aren't that many people who text Alex to begin with and the timing makes sense. Alex taps off a quick response and a moment later there are two more buzzes in succession. Alex frowns at the screen for a moment and then types a much longer reply, after which he hesitates for a second and then hands John his phone.

As John reads the messages, another one comes in.

John wordlessly passes the phone back to Alex, who stares down at the message for a long time. He sends another lengthy reply, then puts his phone to sleep and rests it on his thigh, screen up. He goes back to staring out the window for a minute, then turns to John.

"What you said before, about me and Ned looking alike?" John nods. "I've heard it before. A lot. Everyone used to say it when we were kids. Even before my mom died, Ned and I were best friends, you know? Mr. Stevens was our landlord and Mom's boss--one of her jobs was building maintenance for the apartment building he owned down the street. We got to live in our little two bedroom house for free in exchange for Mom doing minor upkeep and calling plumbers and electricians and shit when it was stuff she couldn't do herself. So, you know, we were around the Stevenses a lot and Ned and I played together a lot. He had lots of other friends but I really just had him."

John keeps his mouth firmly closed; he's afraid if he opens his mouth, a million questions will come pouring out. For all that Alex will talk every topic to death, he's strangely silent on the details of his upbringing. He has no problem telling friends and acquaintances that he's an immigrant from the Caribbean or that his mother died when he was young or that he wrote his way to Columbia or that he worked in the parapsych shop with his foster father, but the details are always vague and glossed over. It's always a story about how fucking hard he works, not about the actual circumstances of his life. 

"Me and Ned," Alex continues, "we'd go around town together running errands for our parents and playing and people would always comment that we looked just like brothers. Constantly. And there was always so much gossip flying around that fucking town--it's hard to know what was real inside knowledge and what was assumed. So I don't know. I don't know if it was a quirk of genetics or if there's some lineage that ties us together--my mom and Mr. and Mrs. Stevens were all island natives--or if something happened between Mr. Stevens and my mom. But after my dad left, sometimes I would fantasize about it. Sometimes I would imagine that Mr. Stevens really was my dad and Ned really was my brother and mom and I would go live with them. Mrs. Stevens, too--in my fantasies, Mrs. Stevens was totally cool with all of this. It was just like, a childish dream when I was so pissed at my father that my chest felt like it was going to split open."

The screen to Alex's phone lights up on his thigh and buzzes, interrupting the story. John wants to scold it, but even if Alex doesn't continue, this is still so much. John feels greedy for hoarding it away like this, these new pieces of Alex. The message is from Ned, of course, and John can't help but see it, the bright box of text superimposed over Alex's lockscreen wallpaper, a photo of John stretched out on the couch at the Washington's with Nelson's head resting on his lap.

Alex doesn't bother unlocking his phone, just slides the message open and sends a heart as a reply, then puts it to sleep again.

"Sorry," he says.

"You don't have anything to be sorry about."

And John thinks that's it, that Alex is going to change the subject to work or classes or something he read or something he heard, but instead he rests his head on John's shoulder, sighs, and continues.

"After my mom died, we went to live with this cousin of hers...he was an asshole, he was...not a good guardian. And Mr. Stevens kind of kept tabs on us--he didn't think Peter was fit to watch us and he wanted to keep us with him and, barring that, wanted to make sure I was okay. And, fuck, I would dream about it so much, Mr. Stevens coming in and saving me from living with this kid who just didn't give a single shit about me. Making me a part of his family." He breathes in and out noisily. "And then Peter died and we were supposed to stay with his dad, who was okay, but then he died and Mr. Stevens really took me in and...I wouldn't let myself think about that anymore. I wouldn't let myself be part of the family. Because I wasn't. All of those dreams were just that--they were stupid dreams from a stupid kid. I wasn't their kid, Ned wasn't my brother, I was an obligation. And they may have liked me and wanted me to be there, but I was still an obligation. I wasn't part of the family. They got a fucking check in the mail every two weeks from the government, paying them for the trouble of keeping me. He and Mrs. Stevens weren't my parents and they never would be."

John gently lifts the arm that Alex is leaning against, sliding it around his shoulders so he can stroke Alex's hair. They're both quiet for a moment, the murmur of other passengers and the thrum of the train filling the silence. At the other end of the car, three girls are gossiping about a boy in one of their classes and shriek-laughing at the contents of his text messages. Across from them, a guy their age is asleep, his music so loud that it leaks out of his headphones. It makes John think of Lafayette and miss him suddenly. 

"You never talk about the island," John finally says. "Not like that."

"It's behind me," Alex says, a shade of his usual dismissive arrogance in his voice. "I don't think about it that much. I'd rather focus on the present. There's nothing for me back there, but here I've got a great life and my dream job and friends and really interesting science and, you know. You." John tugs affectionately on his hair and Alex smiles. "Thinking about back then isn't worth it. But at the same time...fuck, I don't know."

John is quiet for one stop, then two. The shrieking girls get off. The boy across from them wakes up, readjusts his position, and goes back to sleep. He thinks about Ned and Alex, desperately wanting the same thing and too afraid to admit it to each other.

"I think," John finally says, "that if I've learned anything this year, it's that family is weird and hard and sometimes doesn't look the way we expect it to. I think that it's possible, even if you can't make yourself think of his parents as your parents, to admit and accept that Ned is your brother. I think that you don't talk about Ned like, a lot, but you talk about him way more than you've ever talked about James."

Alex hums in acknowledgement as the train rocks and John twists his hair between his fingers.

"I think I want to believe I'm above it," Alex finally says, a murmur that John almost misses. "Wanting a family. I mean, wanting parents. I think I want to believe that I'm independent enough that I don't even think about it."

"Well," John says, "your secret's safe with me."

John watches Alex's face out of the corner of his eye, as well as he's able to from this angle. He's soft and unsettled and distant in a way John rarely sees him. Quiet. He thinks about how strange it is to see his brash, arrogant Alexander so unguarded. He thinks about how strange it is to know someone so well and still learn new things about them every day.

"Maybe...." Alex trails off. "Maybe we should invite Ned to come swimming one day when we're house-sitting next month."

"That'd be nice," John says. "I like him."

Alex snorts, and the look he gives John is more familiar, less vulnerable. "Nevermind, I take it back--the last thing I want is Ned running around in a bathing suit so you can salivate over him all day."

"It's not my fault your brother is hot!" John says, perhaps a little too loudly--the man reading a newspaper two rows in front of them looks up and over at them, and Alex has to hide his laughter in John's shoulder. "And anyway," John continues, lowering his volume, "he's pretty to look at, but you know I always come home to you."

"Yeah," Alex says, "I know."

And his smiles is maybe a little too sincere, his tone a little too fond, but John doesn't mind at all.


	5. Part One: IV. we'll remember this when we are old and ancient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Alex aren't the only ones who hate Lee, Molly makes a very persuasive argument, and no one knows much about wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of this portion from "July, July" by The Decemberists.
> 
> If I may suggest imagining Justina Machado in the role of Lt. Benita Lincoln?

Wednesday morning starts not with an alarm or the smell from the automatic coffeemaker or Alex's mouth on his dick, but with Upstairs. Yelling. Loudly. Again.

"I hate them," Alex moans, wrapping a pillow around his head and rolling over. "I sleep five goddamn hours a night, how do they always manage to reach peak volume when I'm asleep? It's statistically improbable!"

John grunts in agreement. He wants to say something about how they manage to be loud enough to wake him even though he sleeps like a dead person, but speech is still beyond him. It's seven am on a summer Wednesday--he didn't get enough sleep last night to deal with this.

"Coffee--school--quiet," he mumbles.

"Good idea," Alex says. "We might as well start sleeping there if they're going to keep doing this."

Alex stumbles out of bed and into the kitchen and John follows a few minutes later. His whole body hurts, he's so tired, and he's tempted, not for the first time, to stomp upstairs and do some shouting of his own.

They get dressed and make coffee and gather their things and somehow Upstairs is still shouting when they leave. They can hear it clear as day through the floor, but once they're out in the hallway and the door is closed, there's nothing.

"It's gotta be the fucking insulation in the ceiling or something," Alex mutters.

"Maybe we can talk to Herc and he can talk to Eddie," John says. 

"Maybe we can sneak a haunted artifact into their apartment so they clear out," Alex says.

The hits keep on coming once they get to campus; as they drive through and back to the parking lot, John can already tell something is wrong.

"The power's out," he sighs as they wind around to the parapsych lot.

"Not everywhere," Alex says. "Maybe our building was spared."

"Well, now that you've said that you've definitely jinxed it," John says.

And he's right. When they pull into the lot, he can already see that not only is the parapsych building dark, but fucking Charles Lee is standing outside of it, glaring at the unresponsive key sensor. 

"Maybe we can hide at the diner until the power comes back on," Alex says, but Lee's already caught sight of them. He crosses his arms and glares at them like they're personally responsible for the loss of power.

"I hate him possibly more than I hate Upstairs," John mutters.

They walk slowly over to the door, which seems to make Lee even pissier. 

"Power's out?" John asks. 

"What does it look like?" Lee snaps.

"I'm texting GWash now, he has a physical key," Alex says. "But it'll be faster to go over to security."

"Physical key?" Lee asks. He sounds almost suspicious.

"Yeah," Alex says. "You've been here six years, you've never had to deal with a power outage before?"

"Not everyone gets to campus at six am every day," John reminds him. "It's not even 7:30--there's an even chance it's Lincoln. She'll let us in, no problem."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Lee says.

"Lieutenant Lincoln," Alex says.

"Campus police officer," John says.

"She usually does evenings or overnights."

"She likes us."

"Or we amuse her, at least."

"But more importantly, she knows us."

"Which means she'll let us into the building and into GWash's lab without much fuss."

"Because campus security has master keys for all the buildings."

"Physical keys. Like, keyhole keys."

Lee looks back and forth between them, trying to muster some sort of insult. He gives up.

"Fine," he says. "Be quick, I have things to do today."

John is about to protest that they're not Lee's servants and if he wants to get in, he can fucking get off his ass and walk over to security with them, but he snaps his mouth shut once he weighs the satisfaction of making Lee do his own fucking errands against having to spend ten concentrated minutes with him. Alex must come to the same conclusion. He rolls his eyes and then gestures towards campus police with a jerk of his shoulder. John nods, and they set off together, leaving Lee alone at the entrance to the building.

They don't run into anyone else on their walk over to campus police. John's not surprised--it's early on a Wednesday in the middle of June. Even the summer camp programs don't start this early, let alone summer classes. They don't even encounter anyone else in the administrative offices until they get to the basement, where Lieutenant Lincoln is sitting behind the main desk, humming along to the Latin music on the radio as she fills in paperwork.

Lieutenant Lincoln is John's favorite member of the campus security staff, and, luckily, the one he's encountered the most. She's in her early to mid-forties, a curvy Latina lady with a wicked sense of humor and an innate ability to tell the troublemakers apart from those in the wrong place at the wrong time. John has been put in both of those boxes more than once--she generally does overnight shifts or evening shifts, so when John's picked fights on campus or walked into the middle of other people's fights, she's been the one to pick him up. Or, them up, really. He and Alex are usually escorted to campus security together, sometimes tipsy and cheerful, sometimes grumpy about some perceived insult they were carted away before they could avenge. They usually dry out in the back before she lets them go at the end of her shift.

He doesn't think she writes them up half the times she probably should. 

"And what can I do for you fine gentlemen this morning?" she asks, looking up from her papers as they approach.

"Power's out in the parapsych building," Alex starts to say, but she's reciting it along with him before he's gotten more than one word out.

Which is the other reason they know her so well--the keycard readers in the parapsych building are notoriously fussy and need to be replaced. Most of the buildings have enough back-up battery on their security systems that they can hold out through minor blips in the power, but the parapsych building cuts out every time. John gets the impression that before he and Alex were around, Washington or another professor came in earliest and used their building key to get in and reset the system. Now that he and Alex are at their desks at the crack of dawn most days, they've become pretty friendly with Lieutenant Lincoln.

"Okay, come on, boys," she says, grabbing a ring of keys out of a drawer in her desk and getting up to join them. "I don't know why Wash doesn't just give you master keys to that building--you basically live there."

"We really should talk to him about that," Alex says. "I'm already planning a pitch to get him to leave our universal building access on at the end of the summer."

"You're a power hungry asshole," John says cheerfully.

"I'm providing for our future, babe," Alex insists, knocking their shoulders together.

Lincoln murmurs something in Spanish that makes Alex grin, but he doesn't translate and she doesn't elaborate, just fondly rolls her eyes.

"I haven't seen you boys in a few weeks," she says in English. "You must be staying out of trouble. Which--don't get me wrong--is a nice change. The summer's my quiet time--I've got a lot of paperwork to catch up on."

"I mean, it's probably not so much that we're staying out of trouble as there's no one else here to get us into trouble," John admits. "Even the Frog is half-empty on Saturday nights."

"That's how I like it," Lincoln says. "Just me and my radio and my stacks of files and no drunken teenagers to distract me."

"Apparently the security system didn't get the memo," Alex says.

"That's why you shouldn't trust technology, boys," Lincoln says. "I do all my shit with paper. Paper doesn't break down. Paper doesn't lock you out. Paper doesn't erase itself. You don't have to remember to save or worry about a system crashing."

"I'm a product of my generation," John says. "I wouldn't last a day without tech. Which is why I'll die nobly in the robot revolution, sacrificing myself rather than living either enslaved by our robot overlords or without access to my iPhone."

Lincoln glances at him side-long. "You read too many comic books, _papi_." She nudges Alex. "What about you? You shackled to your smartphone too?"

"He's gotta make it through to write my touching eulogy," John says. "I expect a lot of weeping and flowery metaphors, Hamilton."

"Ha," Alex says, but he's barely smiling and doesn't meet John's eyes.

"Oh, come on," John says, poking Alex's arm. "You owe me at least five post-mortem pages of detailed prose about my exploits."

Alex still doesn't take the bait, though. He's...uncomfortable. Which is not a particularly Alex-like emotion. His smile is a little fake, still, as he says, "Baby, I'd be lucky if I could manage a coherent sentence if anything happened to you."

He's aiming for lighthearted but his words sink like lead, weighing heavy on John and almost dragging him to a stop. He forces himself to keep going. He can think about this later, this revelation from Alex, this peek into his fear. For the moment, he's desperate to lighten the conversation again--every step is excruciating and he's very aware that Lieutenant Lincoln is two feet away from them, pretending she's not watching them closely.

But in the end, as John struggles for words, it's Lincoln who saves them. "I will admit I have one of those roomba vacuum things," she says breezily, as if John and Alex haven't gone stiff and weird beside her. "But I treat her more like a pet, so I'd like to think she'll be on my side when the time comes."

"You and your paper reports and your robot pet will lead the revolution," Alex says, clearly just as desperate as John to make this fun again.

"I would be afraid to put her too high up in the ranks," Lincoln said. "Wouldn't want a spy on my hands."

"Just enough power that she knows you trust her, but not enough to do any real damage if she turns," John agrees. They're coming up on the parapsych building now. Lee is sitting on the stairs, glowering. He gets to his feet when he sees them.

"I thought you were getting security!" he says to them once they're within hearing distance. John and Alex look at each other and then look at Lincoln. She's wearing her uniform.

"We...did?" Alex says. John points at Lincoln.

"Oh," Lee says. "There are no real cops on duty?"

And then the penny drops. 

"She is a real cop, jackass," Alex snaps.

"They even let us be doctors and lawyers now," Lincoln says with feigned innocence. Then, sharply, "Move."

Lee hops out of the way, letting Lincoln climb up to the door with John and Alex. She pulls open the side panel of the keycard reader and pokes at something inside of it, but the green light doesn't come back on, so she slides it back into place and shuts it.

"Maybe we're too late and the robot revolution is in motion," John says. "The security system has already turned against us."

"It's not a fucking robot, it's an electrical system with a short in the door," Lee says impatiently. "Just open the damn thing."

Lincoln gives Lee a look over her shoulder cold enough to suck the heat and humidity out of the muggy June air. She turns back to the door and says something to Alex in Spanish again. Alex rolls his eyes and replies, and John might not recognize the words, but he's well versed in reading Alex's face and can tell he's talking about Lee. Lincoln says something else as she pulls out her keyring, and Alex leans over to murmur a French translation to John. It's good to know Lincoln has as low an opinion of Lee as they do.

Lincoln looks away from the door to frown thoughtfully at John. She says something else to Alex in Spanish--he knows enough from context clues and the few words he does know to figure out that she's expressing surprise that John doesn't speak Spanish. And even an idiot could understand Alex's reply.

"No," he says. "Francés, Alemán...um dos versiones del Alemán...."

"Italian," John supplies. "A little."

"Ah, si, Italiano. Gracias," Alex says, grinning.

"What the hell is the hold up?" Lee asks. John's pretty sure he's Latino, but apparently he speaks about as much Spanish as John does. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well," John says, "I don't speak Spanish, so I didn't follow most of it, but that was a list of all the languages I _do_ speak, so I feel okay about being out of the loop on the Spanish, really."

Lee blinks at him. His face, which normally looks vaguely like he's sucking on a lemon, smooths out into a genuinely surprised frown. " _You_ speak four languages?"

"Five," John says dryly. "English. And I don't know what the fuck you're trying to imply with that, but I went to fucking Harvard." For probably the first time in years, John wants to pull out his family name, wants to make it clear that he may live in hoodies and old converse and scrape by in a shitty apartment he shares with his boyfriend, but he has class and intelligence and refinement.

It's a shitty thought. It's the shitty sort of privileged thinking he's been trying to unlearn for at least the past four or five years. He's not any better or smarter or classier or worthy than Alex, who came from nothing and can still think rings around John.

He stays quiet, swallows down that reflex along with his shame, and just gives Lee a level look.

"Just open the fucking door," Lee growls, and Lincoln locates the correct key and pushes it open. Lee stomps past her without acknowledging her at all. Lincoln gives both John and Alex a long-suffering look, then gestures for them to enter ahead of her. They take their time walking down the hall to the door of Washington's lab, where Lee is waiting with his arms crossed. Lincoln takes her time pretending to look for the key again and then slowly opens that door as well.

"I hope to one day be as much of an asshole as you, Lieutenant," Alex says, watching Lee storm into the lab, muttering to himself.

"You're well on your way, kid," she says. She pats Alex on the shoulder and then turns to go. "Talk to Wash about those keys! I have paperwork to do this summer, I can't be running over here unlocking your doors every time there's a summer brownout!"

"Will do!" John calls after her.

And then they're left with an open lab and the prospect of spending a whole day with Lee, who's already annoyed with them.

"So far, I gotta admit that parts of this summer are _not_ living up to my lofty expectations," Alex says. 

"It hasn't been _that_ bad," John says. "Just...not as smooth as we planned. I mean, the most important parts are still here, right? You and me and a place of our own and a summer to work on our own projects...." 

"You're right," Alex admits. "Fuck, since when are you the optimistic one?"

When _did_ he become so optimistic?

"I'm trying it on for size," he tells Alex.

"Well," Alex says, tucking an arm around his waist, "it's a good look on you."

John grins. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." 

John leans forward just the few inches it takes to bring their lips together, but before he can do anything but exhale against Alex's mouth, Lee calls out, "Do you two have to do that gay shit where everyone can see?"

They pull apart and John rolls his eyes.

"I hate that guy," he mutters.

"Now, now," Alex says. "You were gonna be the optimistic one now, remember?"

"I already regret that choice," John says, and lets Alex pull him into the lab so they can finally get to work.

* * *

They stay on campus through most of the day and into the evening. Around eight pm, John starts to get hungry and around nine he mentions his hunger to Alex. They scavenge the fridge in the lab, but even Burr doesn't have leftovers lurking in the back, so they give up and head back to their apartment.

"We need to go grocery shopping," Alex says, peering into the fridge.

"Are there still breakfast burritos in the freezer?" John asks. The cabinets are similarly bare.

"Breakfast burritos are for _breakfast_ ," Alex says, scrunching up his nose.

"Breakfast for dinner," John says. "It would be the same as if we had pancakes at the diner. You know, if we had enough money to go to the diner today."

"But they're _breakfast_ burritos," Alex insists.

"And we've got two days until payday, so it's either breakfast burritos or..." John noses through the cabinets. Thank god the Washingtons are having them over for dinner tomorrow. "...beef ramen or cheerios."

"I hate beef ramen," Alex says, and John closes the door of the cabinet and bangs his head against it. 

"I know," he says. "Thus, my insistence that we have the fucking breakfast burritos."

"You don't have to get shitty," Alex says with a condescending sniff, and John nearly hurts himself, he rolls his eyes so hard. He elbows Alex out of the way and opens the freezer.

"Well, I'm gonna have a fucking breakfast burrito," he says, and grabs one off the freezer door, which reveals a regular frozen burrito underneath it. "You're in luck--the gods heard you being a major fucking baby and blessed you for whatever the fuck reason." He grabs the regular burrito and tosses it to Alex, who misses it completely. 

"I'm feeling very bullied," he says, once he stands up from collecting it off the floor.

"Your life is so hard," John says, and grabs a plate to microwave his dinner.

For the first night in a few days, they actually relax. They eat their burritos on the couch and put on a movie on Netflix, the latest in John's slow attempt to fill in Alex's pop cultural knowledge. They've been working their way through superhero movies, and tonight is the second _Captain America_ movie which is _fine_ , but John is possibly still smarting over Alex falling asleep in the middle of _Thor 2_.

("Shouldn't you be glad your dude doesn't do it for me?" Alex said once John poked him awake and glared at him for the audacity to not be riveted to Chris Hemsworth's every move. "More for you?"

"I have some very elaborate fantasies about a three-way," John said.

"I'm not saying I wouldn't fuck him," Alex insisted, "just that I have no fucking desire to watch him have a trans-dimensional fight scene for _nine hundred hours_.")

It's actually nice, spending a night in. Alex is marginally more interested in the _Captain America_ movie than he was in _Thor_ and it's nice to stretch out and cuddle and just _exist_ for a few hours. As the movie winds down, John starts to idly think about what he'd like to do once they get to the bedroom, stroking his fingers absently against Alex's belly, the barest of foreplay, more of reminder that sex is on the table a little later than anything else.

"Wanna sleep in tomorrow?" Alex asks as the credits begin.

"Mm, maybe," John says. "I don't think we have anything pressing? Might as well wake up when we wake up."

"Sounds good," Alex says. He hits the power button on the television and shifts onto his back, pulling John on top of him.

"There's a scene after the credits," he says, and Alex gives him the most withering of looks.

"Babe, as hot as I normally find your _supreme nerdery_ \--"

John kisses him, though it's more of a press of smiles. When he pulls away, Alex grins at him fondly and pushes his hair behind his ears.

"I'm gonna go take my contacts out if you wanna put the dishes in the sink?"

"Sounds good," John says, and climbs off of him.

He puts the dishes away and tidies the kitchen and turns off the Xbox and wanders into the bedroom, pulling his t-shirt over his head. He leaves the shorts and boxers for Alex to deal with and turns on the air conditioner and then jumps on the bed, Alex joining him moments later, also sans shirt.

"Got any plans?" he asks, shimmying up to run his fingers over John's bare chest.

"Mm, I'm pretty tired, so I might make you do all the work," John says, grinning and stretching.

"Lazy," Alex says into his mouth, and then swallows his laugh with a kiss.

It doesn't even have time to start getting good before they hear the door slam upstairs. They both freeze.

"Ignore it," Alex insists, and kisses him again, even as Mr. Upstairs stomps across the floor and turns on his stereo. The bass literally shakes their ceiling.

John tries to ignore it and focus on Alex's fingers sneaking under his shorts and pulling him closer, but he can feel the noise from upstairs reverberating in his bones. A headache is building behind his eye.

"Ignore it," Alex says again, pushing John onto his back and climbing on top of him. He runs his hands up John's chest and then up his arms and then encircles both his wrists in a tight grip. John tries to focus on that--his dick is starting to get interested again, despite the fact that he's mildly afraid their lighting fixture is going to fall down onto their heads. Alex kisses him again, throws himself into it, kisses John with a ferocity that has John panting to keep up.

Yes, okay. This is good.

Then Mrs. Upstairs comes stomping in and shouting over the music. Even Alex pulls away at that.

"Fuck," he mutters. "What the fuck? Why do they do this?"

"Ignore it," John says weakly, but between the bass and the shouting and the stomping, it's like they're in the middle of an earthquake.

"Maybe it will stop," Alex says, letting go of John's wrists.

"Maybe," John says without conviction.

"Maybe we can turn on the television and block it out?"

"Maybe."

The mood is decidedly unsexy as they return to the living room. If anything, the noise is worse out here. John turns the television and the Xbox back on and starts _Captain America_ again, just to test it.

It's no use.

"Oh my god, why?" he mutters.

"We can wait them out," Alex says, and turns the volume up higher. He's got that stony, stubborn look that means that nothing but god himself will sway him.

He lasts fifteen minutes into the movie.

"Fuck this," he says. "Do you want to go back to the lab?"

"The couch isn't terrible," John says. They've slept on it before. They could do worse.

"Get your shoes," Alex says. "Let's go." 

John can tell he's already composing a letter to their landlord in his head. John really fucking loves him.

Any energy that John may have had as they finished up the movie is zapped by the time they shove a change of clothes in their bags and drive over to campus again. When he catches a glance at himself in the rear view mirror, the bags under his eyes rival Alex's. The parking lot is empty when they get there, and the hall is silent as they troop down to the lab. Burr left long before they did and John thinks they'd be more likely to see Laf appear in the lab after hours despite the ocean between them than they would Lee.

"GWash's office or the lab?" Alex asks as John pulls the lab door closed behind them and re-enables the security system. The sofa in Washington's office is longer, but the one in the lab is wider. 

"Lab," John says after some deliberation. "It's softer."

"Sounds good," Alex says, and drops his messenger bag on the floor. He approaches John and rests his hands on John's hips, dragging him forward into a kiss. John allows it and then a second and then a third and then gently pushes Alex back far enough to speak.

"I'm really fucking tired now," he warns.

"Okay," Alex says. "Is that like, 'I don't want to fuck anymore' tired or 'I'm sorry if I fall asleep when my dick is in your mouth' tired?"

John considers it for a second.

"The second one," he says. "So I'm apologizing now if I fall asleep before you come."

"I'll live," Alex says. "I've got two hands."

"I've got some hands and orifices too," John says. "Don't let my being asleep stop you from making use of them."

"How would that work?" Alex asks thoughtfully.

"You're creative," John says. "I'm sure you'd think of something."

Alex grins at him and pulls him into another kiss, slipping his hands underneath John's shirt.

*

The first thing John notices in the morning is the all-encompassing _quiet_. Alex is asleep on his chest, a light wheezing snore escaping on every other breath, and the fridge is humming, but there's no stomping, no music, and not even the rumble of the air conditioner. 

The second thing John notices in the morning is the light shining right in his eyes. They did not think to close the blinds last night, and now they're paying for it.

Or, John is paying for it. Alex's head is tucked under his chin, eyes buried in John's chest. 

"C'mon, sunshine, time to get up," John says, shaking him awake.

There's a hiccup and then a snort. Alex doesn't open his eyes or sit up, but John knows he's awake now.

"Up," he says.

"I'm asleep," Alex insists.

"You're not."

"How do you know?"

"Come on, I want coffee and I need to pee. Get up."

Alex groans and sits up, then winces at the sun shining directly at them.

"Why didn't we close the blinds?" he moans.

"Because we're idiots," John says, and wiggles out from beneath him. "Put the coffee on."

The hallways are still eerie and empty when John makes his way down the hall to the bathroom. The need to empty his bladder is less urgent now that Alex's bony hip isn't pressing directly into it, but it hasn't disappeared completely. He washes his face afterwards, trying to scrub the lingering exhaustion and stickiness of sleep out from under his eyes. When he gets back to the lab, Alex has changed his clothes and is glaring into his bag as the coffeemaker burbles in the background.

"I didn't bring contacts," he says to John's raised eyebrow. "I thought for sure I grabbed them. I must have left them on the fucking table. Fuck Upstairs."

"I like it when you wear your glasses," John says.

"Glasses are a home thing, not a work thing," Alex grumbles. 

"Well, I have a feeling that work and home are gonna blend together even more than usual unless Mr. and Mrs. Upstairs get on a better schedule or move out."

Alex sighs and pushes his glasses further up his nose. "I'm going to the bathroom."

While Alex is gone, John changes and pours himself a cup of coffee, then goes around booting up equipment and his and Alex's computers. He's about to root through the cabinet of snacks for something resembling breakfast when Molly calls out, "Knock, knock!" from the doorway.

"Hey," John says, waving her inside. He waves her in a little faster when he sees she's carrying Dunkin Donuts bags.

"Jesus, I didn't actually expect you guys to be here this early," she says. "I was gonna leave this stuff on your desk and stop in on my way back from brunch."

"It's a long story," John says, right as she catches sight of the sofa, covered in blankets and pajamas.

"Did you _sleep here_?" she asks, picking up John's sleep t-shirt pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

"I told you, it's a long story," John says. "The cliff notes is that our upstairs neighbors never stop shouting at each other and there's no insulation between their floor and our ceiling."

"Sucks to be you," Molly says. 

"Are you here at nine in the morning for a reason?" John asks.

"I'm on my way to meet Maggie for brunch and I was going to drop off these muffins for you guys." She holds up the bags, one of which John snags. It's blueberry, and he puts the rest of the bags on Alex's desk, then shoves all of their clothes and blankets to one end of the couch so he can sit down. Molly follows.

"So, what do you want?" he asks around a mouthful of blueberry muffin.

"I can't just drop off--"

"No."

Molly sighs. "Did you see the email from von Steuben about the boat?"

"Yes." It was an invitation to join von Steuben and, presumably, his harem on Ponter's yacht for a weekend. Alex had immediately vetoed it when he saw it yesterday morning. John hadn't gotten around to coming up with a good excuse to decline the invitation, yet.

"You've gotta come."

"No," John says, taking another bite of muffin.

"Please? Laurens, _please_? I thought Maggie wouldn't want to go but she's into it and I can't face it alone."

He swallows the muffin and chases it with a gulp of hot coffee, shaking his head. "Thanks for the food, but nope."

"I'm literally begging you, Laurens." She stares imploringly at him with her hands pressed together in prayer and her best big puppy eyes aimed straight at him. " _Begging_ , John."

"And last month you begged me to take you with me to that gallery opening and last week you begged me for the last ream of blue paper and yesterday you begged me to let you use the Washingtons' pool while we're house-sitting," he says. "It's not like you have pride about it."

She kicks him in the shin. Hard.

"You're an asshole, but you're my only gay friend who's here right now, as sad as it is to admit."

"Walker," John says, tearing a piece of the muffin off and popping it into his mouth.

"Ben's gonna be too busy sucking Steubs' dick all day to be any help."

John winces. "God, will they at least do that shit in the cabin?"

"Do yachts have cabins?" Molly asks.

"Yeah," John says. He eats another piece of muffin. "Depends on how big it is, and Ponter is loaded, so...." He shrugs. "Anyway, Ponter will be there, he's cool. And Ponce, who's a douchebag, but a harmless one. Even more harmless to you since he doesn't want to fuck you."

"Yes," Molly says, throwing herself down onto the couch next to him, "but he's still an asshole. And you only like Ponter because you have a crush on him."

"I don't have a crush on--" John stops himself from falling into that pointless argument. "The point is, there will be plenty of people there, it won't just be Steubs and Walker fucking in the back room while you make small talk with your date."

"Laurens!" Molly whines, and she sounds so truly anxious and pathetic that he stops himself from shoving her off the couch and telling her to get lost. "You're my only gay friend here right now and it's gonna be awkward enough taking Maggie on this dumb thing. She knows you guys, I like you guys, Steubs invited you...."

John can feel himself giving in and it must show on his face, because Molly pushes harder.

"Come on, Laurens--I know you want to spend a day lounging around in a bathing suit with Ham. Are you really going to skip a chance to make out on a fancy boat?"

"Alex hates swimming," John says, but Molly's won and she knows it, if her grin is anything to go by.

"You're my favorite!" she says.

"I didn't agree to anything!"

"Yeah, sure you didn't." 

"What did he agree to?" Alex is back, and he's not gonna be pleased. Not that John has actually agreed to anything yet.

"Steubs' boat thing," Molly tells him. "Wait, are you wearing glasses?"

Alex scowls and her, then scowls at John. "I told you, I think that's a death wish!" He crosses his arms, moving to stand in front of the couch so he can glower at both of them simultaneously. "And I wear contacts."

"They're cute," Molly says.

"I tell him that all the time," John says.

"I'm not going on a boat!" Alex flails his hands at them to get their attention. "You know I hate swimming and water and the beach and outside!"

"You have to come!" Molly says. "I brought you muffins!"

"Muffins aren't some kind of binding agreement!" Alex says, but he turns around and snatches a bag off of the desk.

"Okay," John says, sighing, "I'll go, he can stay home."

"You would _leave me_?" Alex squawks around a mouthful of muffin. It's not the most attractive he's ever looked, even if he is wearing his glasses. "For _two days_?"

"Wait, jesus, have you two never been apart for two days before?" Molly asks.

"Um," John says.

"I don't drive! We live a million miles away from the lab!" Alex continues, crumbs flying everywhere. 

"First off, maybe stop chewing," John says. Alex flips him off, but he swallows, at least. "Secondly...I think it could be fun. If you really don't want to go, then we won't go, but Molly asked for the favor and spending a couple days lying around in the sun with you, drinking and smoking and not worrying about anything...it's probably the closest we're gonna come to a vacation."

Alex still looks mutinous, but John can see him wavering.

"Dude, I'm gay as hell and even I know Laurens makes everyone swoon when he takes his shirt off," Molly says. "You're seriously gonna say no to two days of having him lounge around all sweaty and gross in just a bathing suit?"

"We could do that here!" Alex insists. "We don't have to go out into _the middle of the ocean_ where we might _die_."

John is about to admit defeat, when Lee comes slamming into the lab, grumbling under his breath.

"Like I have fucking time to do that all over again," he mutters. "Like I don't have a fucking life and have to give up two fucking weekends to watch that fucking experiment. Who the fuck does he think he is? Six fucking hours a day on a weekend, what the fuck."

John would have preferred if the universe sent a slightly less annoying sign, one that refrained from ruining the good name of John's mentor, but he'll take what he can get. He looks at Alex, one eyebrow raised, and Lee throws his bag onto the ground and sinks into the chair at his desk. John watches Alex's face, follows it through his train of thought--Lee in the lab all day all weekend means that they'll want to limit their exposure. Except that there's a chance that Upstairs and Mrs. Upstairs will be home and screaming or fucking so loudly that they can't get anything done. The library closes at four on Saturdays and one on Sundays, which limits the time they can spend there. Their options for completely avoiding Lee two weekends in a row and still maintaining their sanity are limited.

" _Ugh_ ," Alex groans, " _fine_. We'll go on the stupid boat. But _only_ because I might kill Lee if we're stuck here with him two fucking weekends in a row."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Hamilton?" Lee snarls, but John and Alex ignore him and Molly jumps to her feet, grinning.

"Thank you thank you thank you!" she says. "I'll make it up to you, I swear. I'm gonna go tell Steubs you guys are in. He'll be thrilled--I think you're his favorite people he's not fucking."

John waves as she runs off before either of them can change their minds. Alex takes her place on the couch, still disgruntled.

"Sorry, babe," John says. "We can do what _you_ want to do this weekend."

"I want to fuck you, in our bed, without a soundtrack from Upstairs," Alex grumbles.

"Keep your fucking sex life to yourself," Lee snaps. John and Alex ignore him.

"Okay, what you want, within the confines of reality," John amends.

"I want to go to the Absecon Lighthouse," Alex says. 

The Absecon Lighthouse is in Atlantic City. It's at least two hours away on a good day, let alone on a Saturday in the summer. Fuck, that's a lot of driving.

"Fine," John says. "We'll go on Saturday morning."

Alex looks quite pleased with himself. John doesn't point out the hypocrisy of dragging his feet about going down the shore next weekend and begging for a trip this weekend, but instead tugs Alex towards him by the hem of his shirt and kisses him slowly on the mouth.

"I love your dumb hipster glasses," John tells him.

"Do you need to do all that gay shit here?" Lee says, because apparently that's just going to be his mantra this summer.

"Yes," Alex says, sighing and parting his lips just a little, a clear indication that he wants to be kissed again. John grants his request, even as Lee huffs and slams around behind them, muttering about a hostile work environment. When John pulls away, he grins.

"So, nine hundred hours in the car this weekend, dinner with the Washingtons next week, and von Steuben's boat orgy next weekend," he says.

"And what about right now?" Alex asks.

John tugs him closer again. "I can think of a couple things...."

* * *

Mrs. Washington greets them with a warm smile when she opens the door on the Thursday night before their trip with von Steuben and his harem. She takes the bouquet of flowers that John is holding in one hand and then gives them both half-hugs with her free arm, ushering them inside. It's been a busy week--not only did John spend hours driving them to and from Atlantic City last weekend, but they've been out on cases with Burr every night since. John's looking forward to a calm night with a good meal and a few quiet hours he doesn't have to spend bent over an equipment array that really needs to be handled by more than one person at a time.

"Hello, boys," Mrs. Washington says. "You should know by now that you don't have to bring anything when you come over for dinner."

"I know," John says, subtly looking into the living room where Nelson and Blue are staring at them, sitting attentively in a way that can only mean they were commanded to do so before Mrs. W opened the door. "But my parents raised me never to show up empty-handed."

"My parents did _not_ raise me that way, but try telling that to him," Alex says. Mrs. W laughs and closes the door behind them, then smiles crookedly at John.

"Go on then," she says. "I know why you really come here for dinner."

"That's completely untrue, ma'am," John says, even as he slips into the living room and kneels down in front of the dogs, grinning as Blue tries to climb into his lap and Nelson starts nuzzling him. "It's entirely for the food and the company. But this is definitely a bonus. Isn't that right boys? An awesome bonus." He ruffles Blue's fur and then hugs Nelson. Somewhere above him, Alex sighs theatrically.

"I don't even recognize you around animals, you're like a pod person."

"I'm sorry he doesn't like you, boys," John coos, petting both dogs as they jump on him and nuzzle him. "He has terrible taste, doesn't he?"

"Well, I'm dating _you_ , so...."

John allows for one last fuzzy kiss and then gets up so he can properly roll his eyes at Alex, who steps away from him when John tries to get close.

"You're covered in dog fur and dog slobber, don't touch me," he says.

"You're such an asshole," John says.

"Boys...."

"Sorry," they chorus, and follow her into the kitchen, where Washington is leaning over his iPad, scrolling through a document.

"Hamilton, Laurens," he says without looking up.

"Dinner will be ready in just a minute or so, boys," Mrs. W says. "Why don't you go pick out a bottle of wine from the cart in the living room. George, if you could tear yourself away from that thing to set the table?"

"Mmhm," Washington hums.

" _Now_?" 

John and Alex duck out of the kitchen just as Mrs. W tosses a dishtowel onto the screen of Washington's tablet.

"That's like an eerie look into our future," Alex says as he kneels down in front of the cart where the Washingtons keep their liquor. 

"Which one of us has actually learned how to cook food in this eerie future you're envisioning?" John asks.

"Hey, maybe we'll be the sort of classy assholes who set the table for takeout." John chuckles and runs his fingers through Alex's hair, which is hanging down around his shoulders, while he hunts through the cart. "You were rich, do you know anything about wine?"

"Nothing," John admits. "I always just bought shit with a nice label." Lafayette is the wine expert, a stereotype that he clings to, turning his nose up on anything that John or Alex bring home from the liquor store.

Alex grabs a bottle and holds it up, shrugging. "Good?"

It's red, which is about all John can tell about it from reading the label. "Go for it."

They join the Washingtons in the dining room. The table is set and there's already a salad and a basket of what looks like garlic bread off to one side. Alex brandishes the bottle of wine as they take their seats.

"We don't know anything about wine," he announces, passing it to Washington.

"Well, I don't know anything about wine either and Martha's too polite to say anything one way or another, so we should be fine," he says wryly. He begins to open it as Mrs. Washington comes in holding a casserole dish of lasagne.

"Can I help at all, Mrs. W?" John asks.

"This is all, but I appreciate the offer," she says. "Be a dear and put a trivet in the center of the table?"

John does as he's asked and soon enough they're spooning food onto their plates and passing around the wine. 

"Everything looks great," Alex says without prompting. Alex is honestly gracious and well-mannered most of the time, but there are also times that he just doesn't think. It makes John's ingrained decades of southern hospitality prickle every time, though he's usually good about not saying anything out loud.

"Yes," John says. "Thank you for inviting us."

"It's our pleasure," Mrs. Washington says. "We wanted to thank you for agreeing to watch the house and the dogs for us while we're gone."

"It's no problem at all, we're happy to do it," John says honestly. 

"We still appreciate it," Washington says. "Now, let's eat while it's hot and we'll talk about details afterwards."

The food is, of course, delicious, and Mrs. Washington keeps the conversation going by asking about what they're working on and how their summer is going and what their other plans are, inquiring after Molly and Jamika and even Herc, whom he knows she doesn't even like that much. She won't let them help clean the table afterwards and she brings out some kind of fruit trifle for dessert, which is just as good as their dinner. 

Mrs. Washington is really kind of over the top, sometimes, but John can't pretend he doesn't appreciate it.

"...he's just always talking out his--place he shouldn't talk out of." Alex is explaining Charles Lee's latest bullshit to Washington, censoring himself in deference to Mrs. Washington's rules about language at the table. "You should see the stuff he posts on Facebook. It's all garbage about how crappy our lab is and how you're a bad teacher, which we all know you're _not_." He pauses to put some more trifle in his mouth and John picks it up fluidly.

"I mean, he trashes all of us, but it's like he's extra pissed at you for making him actually _work_ for his degree. Just always running off at the mouth on campus and on social media saying things that are the opposite of true." _Washington doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, he just steals all his grad students' work,_ he'd written in a conversation on Facebook, and _Washington hides behind bullshit bureaucracy and lab rules because he's a shit parapsychologist_ he said to someone in the coffee shop on campus, and that's just the latest bullshit. It's really starting to piss John off--he already has a low tolerance for people who refuse to own their own shit and making Washington the scapegoat makes it ten times worse.

"Leave him alone," Washington calls out from the kitchen. A moment later, he comes through the door holding a carafe of coffee. "You know it's all nonsense and you know he's only saying it to make excuses for his own lack of progress. He'll only be here for a few more weeks and then you'll never have to see him again."

"God fucking willing," Alex mutters.

"Language," Mrs. W murmurs, and Alex actually blushes.

"And I don't want to hear about you getting into it with him while I'm gone," Washington continues. He takes a seat at the table and then pours coffee for all four of them. "Avoid him if you have to. He has a fairly long list of things he needs to accomplish in my absence, and that will hopefully keep him busy enough to leave you alone as well."

"We'll try," John says. He can't really promise anything more.

"See that you do," Washington says. "Anyway, Lee aside, we should lay down the ground rules for the next few weeks."

"We'll try not to throw any ragers," Alex says.

"Just make sure you collect people's keys if you do," Mrs. Washington says. John can't tell if she's joking.

"The dogs will need to be fed twice a day and let out or walked twice a day," Washington continues. "As long as the back gate is locked, you can let them into the backyard on their own and they won't try to wander, but put them both on leashes if you go for a walk--leash laws aside, Blue is very efficient and Nelson likes to wander, so they won't stay together otherwise."

"They'll try to whine their way into more treats if you're around in between meals, but don't listen to them," Mrs. W warns them.

"Too late, he's a pushover," Alex says. John kicks him under the table.

"It's fine, George is too," Mrs. W says. 

"We're being thrown under the bus, son," Washington says to John.

"Yeah, I'm used to it," John says.

"Light of my life!" Alex literally bats his eyelashes and John is forced to kick him again.

" _Anyway_ ," Mrs. W says. "You're welcome to stay here overnight in Patsy's room or Gilbert's room if you want to or need to, but please wash the sheets and any dishes that you use when you're through with them. Keep an eye on the garbage--if you're putting things into it, be sure to take it out before it starts to stink up the house."

"I'm keeping the central air on for the dogs," Washington adds. "It's set for 70 degrees, so please change it back to that before you leave if you change it during the day."

"We have this all written down for you," Mrs. Washington continues. "We'll leave the instructions on the counter for you."

Alex, who had pulled out his phone and started taking notes around the time Mrs. W mentioned the garbage, relaxes, but only a little.

"You know the wifi passwords," Washington says. "If the wifi goes down, the router is in my office. You're young, so I'm sure you know this routine better than I do."

"I think we can figure it out," John assures him.

"Help yourself to any food we have in the house while we're gone," Mrs. W says. "Make yourselves at home. Just make sure everything is cleaned by the time we get back. Now, about compensation."

John and Alex glance at each other, twin sets of furrowed eyebrows.

"Compensation?" Alex asks.

"I looked online and I talked to some friends and they suggested anywhere from $10 to $20 a day," Mrs. W said. "Since there are two of you and you're not staying in the house, we decided that $15 a day each sounds reasonable, but we're open to negotiation."

"You don't have to...pay us," John says slowly. "Honestly. We're happy to do it."

"That may be true," Washington says, "but that doesn't mean your time isn't worthwhile. If we weren't paying you, we'd be paying someone else."

John's not great at math in his head, but he gets near enough to the number at the end of that equation and his eyes widen. "That's...a lot of money for doing something we'd be happy to do for free," he says.

"It's a fair wage," Washington says. "Hamilton, you're the last person I would expect to complain about being paid a fair wage for your work."

"You make a good point, sir," Alex says. "Shut up and let the man pay us, buttercup."

John's nose wrinkles at the pet name, sarcastic though it may be. "I--" he starts to say, but Alex elbows him. 

"Thank you both," he says. "We're happy to help."

John gives up. "We are," he agrees.

"Then that's settled," Mrs. Washington says. She picks up her coffee and sips it. "Eat your trifle, boys."

"Yes, ma'am," they say, and then happily do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End notes easter egg: Colin Meloy said once (I believe) that the latter verse of "July, July" is about an abandoned chicken processing plant haunted by the ghosts of chickens, so feel free to imagine that as the source of their vexing case at the start of the week.  
> (This is a non-canonical suggestion.)
> 
> Also, I'm HOPING to update on time on Tuesday, but I may have to skip Tuesday and give the next update a week from today, next Friday. I will post on my tumblr if this is the case! Thanks for hanging in there, guys :)


	6. Part One: V. if i could only get you oceanside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone spends the weekend on a boat. John has Opinions about the comics direct market. Molly cross stitches. Alex is afraid of octopodes. No one knows what's going on with von Steuben and his harem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE DELAY, MY FRIENDS. But, to make it up to you, this chapter is 10k instead of 6-8k like they normally are. (And that was TOTALLY on purpose and not just a fluke of the nature of dividing this story into chapters. *shifty eyes*)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting--I'm gonna catch up on comments soon, I swear!
> 
> The title of this chapter is from "Oceanside" by The Decemberists, which I swear is just a coincidence wrt today's Decemberists HamilDrop.

Though he will never admit it to Alex, John is regretting his choices as they stumble out of the car at von Steuben's place on Friday morning. It's way too early and his coffee hasn't kicked in yet--plus, Alex is being an annoying asshole about the whole thing, still.

"Your idea," he mutters as they trudge across the path to Ponter's jeep and Ponce's SUV. "I wanted to stay home, but you wanted to wake up at the crack of fucking dawn--"

"Oh my god, please shut up," John says. "Please just...close your mouth, jesus christ."

"Why are you such an asshole?" Alex mutters.

"Because _you're_ an asshole," John says, and shoves him.

Ponce and Ponter are packing the cars in the driveway. Maggie is leaning against Ponter's Jeep, checking her phone, and Molly is nervously shifting from foot to foot in front of her. Ben and von Steuben are absent when Alex and John join them.

"Laurens!" Molly says with only a hint of nervous desperation.

"Molly!" John parrots.

Maggie glances up from her phone and nods at John and Alex in acknowledgement. "Hey."

"Hey," John says. Alex mumbles something, still churlish about the trip in general.

Maggie's got a few inches on John, which means she's taller than Molly, too. She has dark hair and is wearing jeans cut off right above her knees and a black t-shirt. She's white, but she has a pretty good tan and is slim, with an athletic build. Between that and the hair and the black clothes, it's like she's the inverse of Molly, who's pale, short, and chubby, with (currently) light hair, dressed in a bright teal sundress. 

"Yo, you two are with us," Ponce says, walking around the side of the car, hands on his hips. Peter du Ponceau is white, tall, blond, and largely irritating. He's headed into his last year in Morristown's parapsych program and has likely been fucking von Steuben since he started here. He lives at von Steuben's place and is always lurking around him, a triumvirate with Ponter and now Ben Walker. He's spent the last six or seven months hitting on John incessantly, but he's generally harmless. Today, he's already shirtless, which doesn't surprise John. Ponce's shirt regularly disappears at the vaguest hint of an excuse. And, honestly, Ponce is a fucking asshole and John would punch him before he'd even think about dating him, but he's also ripped, so it's not like John can complain.

"Yeah, he should apologize for his shitty taste in music in advance." Louis Ponter appears around his other side, smirking. Ponter's also white, also tall, also blond, also in the last year of his parapsych doctorate, and also fucking von Steuben. He doesn't irritate John nearly as much as Ponce does--he's sly and funny and has no time for the dumb blonde twink stereotype that Ponce has wholeheartedly embraced despite being pretty brilliant. Which doesn't mean he's not also hot as hell and very aware of the fact. He's leaning into a more classy way of showing off today--his blue and white seersucker shirt is fully unbuttoned, leaving his chest on obvious display. John's not sure who's benefit it's for--Molly and Maggie are gay, Alex and John have made it clear that they're not interested either together or separately, and he _lives_ with the other three, but there's his bare chest all the same.

"It's fine," Alex mumbles, "you should listen to the noisy shit that Laurens likes."

John lets him have that, if only to stave off the bickering that's sure to follow if he tries to protest.

"Ignore that asshole, he doesn't appreciate real music," Ponce says, shoving Ponter away. "Anyway, you four in my car, Steubs and Benny in Ponter's jeep, and we'll meet at the marina."

"Well then what are we standing around here for?" Molly says. "Let's get moving. Those three can catch up to us."

"Yes, ma'am," Ponce says with an exaggerated bow. Molly flips him off. "Let's throw Laurens and Ham's stuff in the back and we'll head out."

Fifteen minutes later, they're turning onto the highway. About two minutes after that, John passes out.

He sleeps the whole way down, a preemptive measure against his frequent carsickness. He's out for almost three hours, through three rest stops and an argument between Alex and Ponce that, according to Molly, lasted for a full fifty miles. He's refreshed when they roll up to the marina, doubly so when they realize that, despite the three pit stops, they've beaten Ponter here, meaning there's plenty of time for John to pop into a Wawa for a coffee. 

When he and Alex get back, Ponter has just pulled in and wastes no further time in leading them to his father's boat. It's surprisingly large, even by John's seven-digit-trust-fund standards.

"Of course he's got some fucking giant boat," Alex gripes as they sling their bags over their shoulders and follow him across the marina towards the yacht. "He's a walking rich boy stereotype, with his boat shoes and his pink shorts."

"Nantucket Red," John says automatically, and then immediately regrets it when Alex's head swivels his way to pin him with an incredulous grimace.

"What?"

"It's not pink, it's Nantucket Red," John clarifies, aiming for casual and falling right into sheepish.

Alex shakes his head. "Sometimes you say shit that is _so_ white...."

"Hey, it's not a race thing," John insists, "it's a class thing!" Not that he feels any better about it being a class thing, but he's working on that. It's not like he has that seven digit trust fund to fall back on now.

"Oh, and those are never closely linked or anything."

"Why are you being such a shithead?" John asks, even though he knows why. 

"Maybe because you forced me to come on a boat against my will?" Alex says, which actually wasn't what John was expecting him to say and is much easier to retort.

"I didn't force you! You made a choice!"

"You backed me into a corner!" Alex insists.

"You have a bike," John says. "If you were that desperate to stay home, you could have gotten around without me! Uber is a thing!"

"Ugh, you're an asshole," Alex mutters. He wants to storm away, John can tell, but the path they're walking isn't that wide and they've got Molly and Maggie behind them and Ponce and Ben not far in front of them, so he's stuck sulking next to John as they take turns stepping onto the boat.

"Why are you making such a fucking big deal of this anyway?" John asks. He walks carefully up the extended steps and pauses at the top, waiting for Alex to join him. Alex already looks nervous. "You don't have to swim--you don't even have to come into the sun, you can just stay in the cabin if you really want to."

"Because we're going out in the ocean!" Alex flails his arms to emphasize his point, and sways on the steps, freezing and grabbing the railing hard. He walks carefully up and onto the boat before continuing in a sharp hiss, "Do you know what lives in the ocean, John? No, you don't, and neither do I because large swathes of it are uncharted and unexplored. Did you know octopuses can open _locks_? What are we gonna do when an octopus climbs up onto the boat and lets itself into our hammock or whatever the fuck we're gonna be sleeping on? What if it brings some of its creepy friends? There are all sorts of fish that could probably flay a human alive!"

John blinks at him slowly. "Okay. First of all, it's octopodes--"

Alex gives him a good shove and storms past him. "You're such a smartass prick!" he calls over his shoulder.

John swallows back a laugh and forces himself to be a little kinder. He's certainly got weird shit that he's afraid of--being afraid of the undiscovered depths of the ocean isn't all that illogical. Plus, the beginning of the conversation is still lingering in his mind--this is probably at least a little bit about social cues in addition to being about sea life. Alex is good at blending in, even if he doesn't understand _why_ people are acting the way they do, but this is a fairly specific and monied situation--a weekend down the shore on a fancy yacht probably isn't a situation he's found himself in with much frequency, despite his two years rubbing elbows with the sons and daughters of the social elite at Columbia.

"Hey, hey," he says, jogging to catch up and touching Alex's elbow gently. "Sorry, you're right. I'm a prick."

Alex crosses his arms and sniffs. "You really fucking are sometimes," he says.

"Sorry," John says again, kissing his cheek. "I get it. And I'm sorry you don't want to be here and I'm sort of glad you came anyway, because I would have missed you if you stayed home." Alex's mouth twitches, the start of a smile he's trying desperately to hold back. "We'll be home in forty-eight hours. And I swear we're not going out that far--not far enough for deep sea creatures, probably not out of sight of the shoreline. You can stay on the boat the whole time. Or--" Goddammit, the things John does for love. "--or we can probably find an Airbnb or something around here? You could stay there and I could come back and spend the night with you--"

Alex grabs John's hand and squeezes it. "Okay, now _I_ feel guilty," he says. "It's fine. You weren't wrong, even if you were being an asshole--if I really didn't want to come, I'd've stayed home. I'll put up with it for two days." John smiles. "But I'll probably bitch a lot."

"When _don't_ you?" John asks, and Alex punches him.

Ponter shows them where they'll be sleeping, sharing a tiny bed in the same room as Molly and Maggie. They stash their bags and John leaves his shirt behind when they return to the deck to relax with some beers as Ponter futzes around to the get boat ready to move. 

Even just the smell of the ocean puts John at ease. It's been almost two years since he was at the beach--he used to spend summers hanging out on Martha's Vineyard or Nantucket with friends from school, and before that it was beaches around Europe, and before that it was home in South Carolina. John loves the ocean, loves the way he feels there, surrounded by blue with the sun high in the sky and the breeze ruffling his hair. He didn't even realize how much he loved it, how much he missed it last summer, until this moment, staring out into endless blue and feeling that tug deep in his chest, that pang of longing. 

He's glad he let Molly talk him into this. He's glad, too, that Alex let himself be talked into it as well.

He turns away from the view to find that Alex has remained standing next to him, still and silent and staring at him. The smile on his face is soft and sweet and true, the one that's so open that it makes John feel self-conscious. It's hard for him to believe, sometimes, that someone could look at him with such naked adoration. It's hard to believe that he could be worth it.

"What?" he asks Alex, who still hasn't spoken. He smiles nervously and touches the back of his neck, a tick he always notices a second too late to stop.

"Nothing," Alex says. "You're just...you look really happy."

John thinks about it. "I am really happy," he says. Jesus, he hasn't said those words in a long time. He hasn't even really thought them in a concrete way.

"Then I am too," Alex says, and kisses him.

The sky stays blue and the sea stays beautiful and the wind in John's hair makes him feel like he's flying. Ponter is driving, but the rest of them are lounging together, talking and laughing and drinking, and John can't believe he almost turned this trip down. Molly's earlier stress seems to have melted away--she's grinning and laughing and much less self-conscious. It's nice, too, to be spending time with Molly and Ben and even Ponce outside of the usual bustle of von Steuben's parties. Those parties are full of dozens of people, mostly strangers, and John is usually focused on drinking and smoking up and dancing and having sex with Alex rather than making new friends or even talking to his old ones.

Ponter eventually slows them to a stop in the calmer waters of the bay and flips a switch to drop the anchor. He grabs a beer and joins them, everyone shifting to make room, shifting in such a way that he ends up mostly on Alex's lap and he can't say he's complaining. 

"I'm gonna say something and you can't say 'I told you so,'" Alex says to him. It's not a whisper, but everyone's broken off into other conversations and no one else is listening.

"You know me better than to expect me to promise that," John warns him. Alex pokes his side and he laughs. "Okay, okay! What is it?"

"This...doesn't suck," Alex says. John smirks, but doesn't say anything because he's a pretty great boyfriend. "And...to be honest, this is pretty much what I was imagining when I was thinking of The Summer of John and Alex. Just...drinking, relaxing, being together, and...." He frowns, gnaws on his lip thoughtfully. "This feeling. This...this...I don't know how to say it. It's not euphoria. It doesn't go that far and it goes further, simultaneously."

"I know what you mean," John says. The teasing has evaporated from his voice. "Like right here, in this place, in this moment, you can't think of anything you would change. Like this is a perfect moment."

Alex nods slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, like this is a perfect moment." He smiles wryly. "Thanks for talking me into this."

"Always happy to have you tell me I'm right," John says.

"I'm going to throw you into the ocean," Alex responds. "Moment ruined." But he's still smiling and his eyes are still soft and John knows it's going to take a lot more than a little teasing to ruin this moment for either of them.

*

After Ponter has had time to catch up to them in the beer department, the ladder comes down and most of them dive off the boat and into the water. Alex stays on deck, curled up in a hammock with a hat, sunglasses, and a metric fuckton of sunscreen. Ben stays up on the boat as well, sunning himself and blasting some kind of garbage hipster music from his phone. 

Being in the water is wonderful. It's fucking freezing--not as cold as the Vineyard or the Cape, but far colder than South Carolina--but it's still refreshing and with the sun beating down on them it's a welcome relief. They splash each other and chase each other and climb back up to the deck to jump and dive into the water until they're all exhausted. Soon, it’s just Molly and John left in the water. John can hear Ponce and Ponter debating something--he can never tell if they're fucking or if they're in a relationship or if they even like each other--and Ben's shitty music still drifting down to them. He wishes Alex was here with him, but even that is a minor complaint; he'll appreciate Alex's sun-warm skin when he finally gets out of the water and joins him in his hammock.

"This is way more fun than I thought it would be," John admits to Molly. She's leisurely draped over a floatie, basking in the sun wearing vibrant yellow sunglasses shaped like flowers. They're entirely absurd and they make John deeply happy that he and Molly are friends.

"Steubs knows how to throw a party," Molly agrees. "Even if it's a tiny party that I think is entirely an excuse to watch Ben sunbathe and then fuck him on a boat."

"I mean, I can't really blame him," John says. "I'm not gonna pretend like I'm not gonna fuck Alex on this boat." Molly pulls a face and he adds, "Not like, in that tiny bunkbed room with you and Maggie. We'll find somewhere else once everyone's in bed. For one thing, that thing's gonna be hard to sleep in, let alone do anything sexy."

"You're not actually going to try and sleep in the same bed, are you?" Molly asks, flipping up her sunglasses so John can get a good look at her skeptical side-eye.

"Yeah," John says, aiming to sound like this is a totally normal decision to make and not like he's mildly embarrassed by how clingy the two of them are. He's not sure it works. "We're not great at sleeping apart."

"He'd be _a foot above your head_."

"Shut up," John mutters, ducking his head. "Anyway, the point is, we'll fuck somewhere else, so if you guys want to use the bedroom...." He waggles his eyebrows, but Molly firmly lets her sunglasses drop back down onto her nose. She sighs.

"Not gonna happen," she says. "For one, I'm probably fatter than you and Ham combined, and those beds are miniscule. For another...." 

John waits for her to continue. She doesn't.

"For another...?" he prompts.

Molly takes off her sunglasses again and glances up at the boat. There's no one in sight and the music is drowning out everything but the rumble of Ponce and Ponter's argument. Still, she swims a little closer to him and perches her sunglasses on top of her head before she says, quietly, "Have you ever been like...way more into someone than they are into you?"

John's heart sinks. He suddenly wants desperately for Molly to have everything she wants, to be happy and have fun and not ever have to deal with being disappointed by something like this. He's not sure where the feeling comes from. They're friends, sure, and they've gotten closer over the past year, but he hadn't realized how much he's come to appreciate her before this moment.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I have. That sucks."

She shrugs. "I don't know. It's just a feeling I have. Like...I obviously had to work up to this, I had this crush for a while, I needed to build up the courage to ask her and all that shit. And I think, for her, it was more like, 'oh, this moderately attractive person would like to have mutual orgasms with me, I could be into that.'" She tries to shrug, though it's hard to do in the water. "I don't know." She pushes her glasses back down over her eyes and looks out at the sea. "I haven't like, asked her specifically. But that's the impression I get."

"These things can change over time," John says, but he knows it's inadequate even as he says it. 

"Yeah," she says, and then they're both quiet, floating in the water to the sound of the arguing and laughter up on the deck.

*

Eventually, when their lips start to turn blue, John and Molly pull themselves away from the water to join the party on deck. There's more drinking then there probably should be on a boat, and plenty of shitty drinking games and gossip. They head back into the marina to anchor for the night once it gets late, settling in for one last drink before turning in for the night. John expects it to be more of a nightcap than anything, but Ponter and Ponce quickly segue into doing shots that von Steuben subtly eggs on, the whole thing taking on an aggressively sexual feel.

John has no fucking idea what goes on at that house when the four of them are alone and he's pretty sure he doesn't ever want to find out.

He and Alex and Molly and Maggie quickly abandon the deck to settle into their cabin for the night. John was still low-key hoping to sneak away with Alex at some point, but he'd rather try his luck tomorrow than accidentally wander into an orgy up top. Instead, he and Alex squish into the bottom bunk on one side of their tiny cabin, with Molly directly across from them and Maggie above her.

The first five minutes after the lights go out it's admittedly awkward. John kissed Alex good night, but he's hyperaware that they're not alone, so every movement sounds ten times louder than it should to his nervous ears. He's not doing anything wrong, but he knows they have a reputation and doesn't want to give the girls a reason to think they're up to something. It doesn't help that Alex is pressed against his back and sniffing his hair, because of course Alex would come up with something new and weird to do for the first time on a night they're sharing an eight-by-eight room with another couple.

"What is your problem?" he finally hisses.

"You smell like something," Alex says.

"Could it possibly be, oh, I don't know, _the ocean_?"

Alex is tellingly quiet. Across from them, Molly snorts.

"Okay, we can all admit this is weird," she says. "I could put on some music?"

Alex makes a scoffing noise. John rolls his eyes.

"She meant her music, not mine, dumbass," he says.

"Yours would come on somehow, eventually," Alex says. "Plus, music is a little too close to trying to set the mood or whatever."

"A podcast?" Molly suggests instead, before John can ask in what world Alex would assume music was setting the mood in this situation.

"Sure," John says quickly. "What was that one you were telling me about the other day?"

" _How Did This Get Made?_ "

"Yeah," John says. "Go for it."

It ends up being a good choice. The show is funny and easy enough to follow that it doesn't matter that none of them have seen the movie. He's not sure if Molly instinctively stuck to something obscure or if it was just lucky, but either way, he's glad it's not something just culturally relevant enough to be on his, Molly, and Maggie's radar, but not Alexander's. Those conversations are always awkward and always make John feel guilty. He's already hyperaware that this isn't his first time at a party on a boat this big, something entirely foreign to Alex before they got von Steuben's email.

"I'm so glad you like bad movies," Maggie says. "It is so hard to explain to people why I like them if they just Don't Get It."

"I know!" Molly says. "I don't understand what's so confusing, they're _hilarious_."

"I have to admit I didn't see the appeal when I first met John," Alex says. "He'd watch those shitty SyFy movies while he was studying and I thought he was insane."

"But eventually, after living with him for a year and stockholming him into it, he got on board!" John adds. Alex pinches his hip.

"Once he explained it was like watching the parapsych CriMinds," Alex says. "You know, you watch it to mock it because it's so outlandish."

"I do, indeed, do that thing," Molly says. "Also, because I would do basically anything for Kirsten Vangsness."

"I don't know if it's the schadenfraude part of my brain or what," Maggie says, "but it's so weirdly calming. We should go to a Rifftrax show this summer, if they do one. Don't they normally do a summer thing?"

"They totally do and we totally should," Molly says. "What do you say, boys?"

Even in the dark, John can tell how happy Molly is, how relieved, just from her tone of voice.

"Yeah, definitely," he says and adds to Alex, "I'll explain when we get home. I think you'll like it."

"I trust you," Alex says, snuggling up against John's back. "Now, put on another one of those things. I'm afraid if it's too quiet for too long we're gonna start to _hear things_ from below."

"Ugh, don't remind me," Molly says, and a few seconds later another episode starts playing. The tension in the room from earlier has completely evaporated, and even though the podcast is funny and he wants to hear the end of the episode, with the lights off and Alex holding him, it's not long before John falls asleep anyway.

*

They set back out not long after breakfast, sailing a little further south this time and into a fairly isolated inlet near the shore. The water is marginally warmer, but it's still June at the Jersey shore, no matter how close they are to land. After a quick swim once they drop anchor, John ends up back on the deck with Alex, enjoying the sunshine while Maggie and Ponce sunbathe and Molly works on some kind of cross stitch. The music is mellower today, probably some more of Ben's hipster shit, and with Alex's nose in a book and Molly focused on counting stitches, John decides he might as well do some sketching.

He's trying to be better about acknowledging his art. He still thinks it's no one's business but his own that he enjoys drawing and painting, but he's less apt to hide it, these days. While he's not prepared to start showing every sketch to anyone who asks, he doesn't flinch when someone asks if he's drawing and he doesn't shy away from drawing in front of people if he feels like it. Today seems like a good day for it--the view of the shore is beautiful, the light and the sky are perfect, and there's not much else to do to fill the time. He pulls his sketchbook and his pencils out of Alex's bag and curls up next to him to get to work.

He's just about got the basics of the shoreline in place when Alex says, "Okay, what are you sewing?"

John looks at Alex and, on his other side, Molly does too.

"This?" she asks, holding up her embroidery hoop.

"Yeah," Alex says.

As far as John can tell, it's half of Captain America's shield bumping up against what is, so far, just a curving black line.

"It's a wedding gift for my cousin," Molly says. "She's a Marvel person and her fiance is a DC person, so I'm making them a sampler with half of Cap's shield combined with half of the Batman emblem that says 'The Ultimate Team-Up' above it and has their wedding date underneath."

John chuckles. "That's cool," he says. "It has personality."

She grins. "Thanks."

"I...don't get it," Alex says.

John jumps in smoothly before anyone can express their surprise or confusion about Alex's missing cultural knowledge. He knows that Alex can take care of himself, that he won't be irrevocably hurt by having to explain that his circumstances growing up left him in a place where pop culture was not always his priority, but he knows it gets to him sometimes and John would rather spare him that frustration and embarrassment when he can.

"There are two big comics companies, DC and Marvel, and most of the major superheroes belong to one or the other. They generally don't crossover," John says. "Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, and their associated stories are all DC, and Captain America and Iron Man and the X-Men and Thor and Spider-Man are all Marvel."

Alex nods, as if this sounds reasonable to him. "And what about the comics you read?"

"I...read a lot of indie comics," John says. "Not superhero stuff. Not that there's anything wrong with superhero stuff, it's just that--you really don't care about the industry issues, so I'm gonna stop right there. But the stuff of mine that you've read--that's all independent like, creator-owned material."

"The thing about writing Spider-Man or whatever is that you don't own the material, it belongs to a corporation," Molly adds. "You don't have a lot of control over the bigger picture story and a lot of times the company is more interested in getting books out than doing what's best for the narrative. The downside is that creator-owned books are great for telling a story without the confines of corporate oversight, but they're not always great at getting out on a regular schedule."

"Tell me about it," Maggie mutters, rolling onto her back. "The _Velvet_ release schedule is driving me crazy."

"I feel that pain," Molly says. "I'm trying to be supportive and keep buying floppies, but it's so tempting to switch to trades, given I have to frigging re-read every issue of an arc each time a new one comes out."

Maggie holds up a hand and Molly high-fives her. 

"The direct market is broken," John says. He wants to change the subject away from the intensely nerdy ins and outs of the comics industry, but he also has an embarrassing number of Opinions about it.

"You're not wrong," Molly says. "On the other hand, it does free up artists to do other awesome projects. John and I went to see an exhibit by Bethany West at this gallery in the city and good god, that woman can paint. I'm not even a huge art person, but it was amazing."

"I heard about that!" Ponter appears from the cabin holding a beer. "The paranormal themed show? I keep meaning to get out there to see it. There are a couple other artists involved too, right?"

"One from each continent," John confirms. "Including someone who did an art residency in Antarctica, not that there's much paranormal activity down there."

"For all that visual mediums play a huge role in parapsych, it's surprisingly hard to translate paranormal studies into good art," Ponter says. He drops into one of the loungers across from where John, Alex, and Molly are sitting. "You're one of the best I've seen in a while, Laurens. I think you could turn it into a career. An artistic career, I mean."

John opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, he's so flustered. It's probably for the best--he'd just embarrass himself given the chance. He closes his mouth and then swallows and says, "Uh...thanks."

"You could," Alex agrees, though he also puts a possessive hand on John's knee. Christ, why does everyone think he wants to fuck Ponter?

"I really love the way West manages to use color in her work," Ponter continues. "It's such a simple way to evoke the etherealness of spirits, but I've never seen another artist handle it in quite that manner."

"I honestly think she gets it from working in comics." John is back on firmer ground, here. He clears his throat again and continues, "There's much more room to experiment doing an indie comic like _Inspectre_ than there is working in mainstream parapsych. Working in a fictional medium encouraged her to think from an illustrator's perspective and not an IP's perspective. I think most people who go into parapsych inspired art from a parapsych background are still thinking about their work as how to best capture the spirit and the movement for investigation rather than capturing the essence of what you feel when you're looking at it, you know?"

"Can we talk about _anything_ else?" Ponce askes. He rolls onto his stomach and takes off his sunglasses, staring at them with almost comical impatience. "Why are we talking about work? This is supposed to be a vacation."

"It's art, not work," Molly insists.

"It's work disguised as art. Anything else. Gossip, sports...."

"And how your fucking team got pounded by the Phillies last week?" Ponter says, smirking.

"Hometown represent!" Maggie says, raising her fist in the air. "We got you boys good, too."

"Of course you're a Yankees fan," John says to Ponce. "I should have known." He's honestly a little surprised Ponce cares about sports at all. He leans hard into a lot of vapid twink stereotypes and John would have assumed that he'd turn his nose up at sports. But no--at the derision in John's tone, he sits up straight and glares.

"Let me guess," Ponce scoffs. "Braves? Or, no, you went to Harvard. If you tell me you root for the fucking Red Sox...."

"Mets," John says dryly. "One of their minor league clubs is out by where I grew up."

"Well, I guess that's not _too_ awful," Ponce allows. "You should probably see what it's like to support a winning team, though."

"We finished in the same fucking place that you did last year!"

Ponce waves him off. "Most decorated professional sports team in American history."

"At least the Mets have _integrity_."

"The Yankees are assholes," Maggie says, "but I respect dedicated fans. We got a lot of jonny-come-latelys in the late aughts when we were winning shit."

"Been there," Ponce says.

"Well, I didn't follow any of that," Molly says, putting her cross stitch on the bench beside her. She gets up and stretches. "Which isn't a dig. I was about to say, 'I have no idea how you keep all that shit in your heads,' but I know everything that happens in every second of every episode of _Doctor Who_ with Matt Smith, and that's the same basic principle. I'm gonna get another drink, does anyone else want anything?"

"Did we kill that pitcher of bloody marys?" John asks. "If we did, I'll take a beer."

"What kind of snacks do we have?" Alex asks.

"There are gummy bears in a Stop & Shop bag next to the cooler," John tells Molly.

Alex kisses his cheek. "You're the best boyfriend and I love you."

"Avoid below deck," Ponter says. "Benny and Steubs were getting pretty loud when I came up."

Molly's nose wrinkles. "Good to know. Cooler it is."

Ponce and Maggie start squabbling quietly about the Yankees and the Phillies as Molly ducks into the cabin to grab their drinks, so John re-focuses on his sketchbook. He's only moderately pleased with what he's put down on paper so far, but he resists the urge to erase the whole thing or start from scratch. It's just practice, it doesn't matter if it's not perfect. He glances back at the shoreline to double check an adjustment he's making, but his gaze falls on Alex instead, staring moodily out at the water.

"Hey," he murmurs, elbowing Alex gently. They're sharing a plush bench that can probably fit four or five people, but still sitting nearly on top of each other.

"Hi," Alex says, distracted still. He turns towards John slowly, his forehead creased and his lips curled into a downward slant. 

"What's up?"

"Thinking," Alex says. "About--hm."

John taps the eraser of his pencil absently on his sketchbook as he waits for Alex to continue.

"I don't have any hobbies," Alex finally says.

John waits for him to elaborate. He doesn't.

"Of course you have hobbies," John says. "You have your blog. And."

Huh.

"See?" Alex says. "My blog is work, anyway. It's parapsych stuff and it's literally my job at this point. The only non-work related thing that I have right now is hanging out with you, and even that's work most of the time. Or, well--I mean, not _work_ as it it's difficult but _work_ as in...we're together, but doing our job."

"No, I got it," John assures him. He's searching for a response, something to placate Alex, but the more he thinks about it, the truer Alex's comment seems. "You play video games. You read. You watch television. You're not a workaholic or anything like that. Not anymore than the rest of us." John shrugs.

"I guess," Alex says. "Just, like...you guys all have art and crafting and sports and shit, and I didn't follow any of those conversations."

"There's nothing wrong with that," John assures him. 

"I know." Alex runs his hand through his hair and sighs. "I know, I just--it's not important."

"No," John protests slowly. "No, it is."

Alex kisses him quickly and then rests their foreheads together. "It's not, I promise. Ignore me. It was a half-formed thought."

It wasn't, but Alex is so good about letting John bow out of conversations that get overwhelming that John can't help but want to return the favor.

"If you're sure," John says, and Alex kisses him again, which isn't a response, really, but it definitely ends the conversation. It ends John's sketching, too, and pushes everything out of his mind save for the feeling of Alex's mouth against his and Alex's skin under his fingertips.

*

John started his Saturday scheme early in the morning, when they were still eating breakfast. He peppered a few comments about how much he loves swimming into his conversation with Alex as they chatted over bagels and coffee. He kept it up throughout the morning and now, as they lay around digesting lunch, the earlier conversation about art and sports behind them, it's still in motion. He's sure it's blindingly obvious what he's doing, but Alex doesn't comment on it, so he keeps going. An aside about how prominent the ocean is in so many of his memories, a passing observation that he didn't get to spend that much time with Alex on Friday because he was in the water so often, a comment on how he wants to spend as much time swimming this afternoon as possible. He applies sunscreen as seductively as he can manage until, finally, Alex throws his hands up.

"Okay, fine!" he says, though John has yet to actually ask him anything. "I'll go in the stupid water with you. _For a minute_."

John grins and ignores the last part. He's pretty sure once he has Alex with him in the ocean, it won't be that hard to keep him there.

It still takes Alex another twenty minutes to get off the boat with him. First he has to reapply sunscreen, then he has to wait fifteen minutes for it to soak in, then he has to double check his email one last time until, finally, there are no more excuses and he's slowly descending the wobbly ladder down into the gently lapping water.

"Jesus _christ_ , it's fucking _cold!_ " he hisses as he slides off the ladder. "Holy _shit_."

"It's the Jersey shore, not the Carribean," John reminds him.

"So not only do you hang out in this water for fun, but it's not even warm? Do you have a masochistic streak that I don't know about?"

"I mean, I'm pretty sure you _know about it_ ," John says. Alex swats at him and then grabs his floatie and clutches it to his chest.

"God, you're insane," he says.

"Again," John says, "I'm not sure why this is news."

They bob in the water for a little while, Alex muttering under his breath, but eventually his goosebumps smooth out and he stops complaining, though John wouldn't say he relaxes at all. He doesn't go back up on the boat, though, and that's something.

"You really don't like swimming, huh?" John asks once he's relatively sure Alex isn't going to abandon him.

"Nope," Alex says. He doesn't elaborate.

"We were all practically fish as kids," John says. "Me and Hen especially. Hen did swim team and stuff, but I learned to swim in our pool and at the beach and I never really wanted to learn the formal strokes or do it competitively. It was just a fun thing I did to relax. I was more interested in baseball and art."

"Hm."

Alex's expression is twisted and frustrated again, his forehead scrunched up as he chews on his lower lip. It's the same expression he had earlier, after they were talking about baseball and comics. 

"The hobby thing is really bothering you," John murmurs. Alex blinks and looks over at him.

"Maybe?" he says. "I don't know." He sighs. "The funny thing is, a year ago I know it wouldn't have at all. I would have been proud that the only thing in my life is work. But, I don't know. The last year with you and the guys and even von Steuben's crew...."

He's quiet again and John tries to tackle the conversation as if he were Alex, the way that Alex guides conversations when he's trying to help John work something out on his own.

"Are you bored?" he asks.

"Not...as such," Alex says. "But you'll go out and do things--go to art shows or photography classes or sports games or whatever--and I just sit at home reading or doing website shit. Which is fine, but...I don't know. Maybe there's something I would rather be doing and I haven't figured it out yet. And...."

He trails off again, and John tries hard to summon his inner Alex, to follow that line of thought.

"...and...you wish you could be going out too?" he tries.

"Not exactly." He unwraps one of his arms from around the floatie and pushes his hair out of his face. "Just...it gives you something to talk about. You can meet strangers and talk about art or sports or what you're reading. You can talk about other things you do. Am I just gonna be the parapsych guy? Are people going to think that's all I have going on in my life? And, if they do think that, do I care? Why do I care? What does it matter what other people think of me? I spent half my life purposely being the guy whose entire life was about his work, what does it mean that now that makes me kind of cringe? And, if all I do is parapsych, am I even going to meet other people? Will my whole life just be me surrounded by other parapsych people who think of me as sort of a colleague and nothing more? But since when do I need other people anyway, outside of you and Laf and Herc?" He tips his head back and looks up at the sky. "Fuck, I don't know."

"No," John says quietly. The strands of this are all starting to weave together now. He can follow Alex's train of thought to the point where it fractures and breaks off into half a dozen questions. He wants to take them one by one and answer them and soothe him and promise him that he's enough, he's good enough, he's smart enough. He wants to promise him that wanting more in his life doesn't make him less devoted to his work, that turning off the work part of his brain every once in awhile is probably a good thing. "I get it, baby."

Alex slumps forward again, his chin hitting his chest. "Then can you explain it to me, cause I don't think I do." He sighs. "I'm only half-kidding."

"For what it's worth," John says, "I don't think anyone is going to judge you for not having a zillion hobbies outside of your work. But, it probably wouldn't hurt to nose around and see if there's anything that catches your interest outside of work and me and playing Halo."

Alex looks up and shoots him a wry smile. "Hey, people make serious money playing video games on the internet."

"Do you really want to focus your energy on becoming good enough at video games to make money on the internet?" John asks.

"God, no."

"Well, then."

Alex chuckles and inches further along the edge of the floatie they're holding until he's shoulder to shoulder with John, his warm skin a sharp contrast to the cool ocean water. John puts an arm around his waist and pulls him close to kiss him. He means for it to be brief, but the movement is enough to make Alex lose his grip. He grabs John's arms to stay afloat and wraps his legs around him as well, and once John manages to keep his head above water and shift Alex's limbs around to a slightly more comfortable position, it's actually...kind of nice.

He keeps one arm over the floatie--treading water is hard when you're holding onto someone else--and kisses Alex again, holding him close. He relaxes into the kiss. He relaxes, period--he's less tense than he's been since they got off the boat and his rigid posture starts to soften under John's grip. 

"Also...." John pauses for a moment to get his thoughts in order and figure out the best way to say this without unintentionally hurting Alex or pissing him off. "Also," he starts again, "I know that when I'm really anxious, drawing helps me calm down a little. It makes me focus on something else. So just...that might also be something. To keep in mind." John looks up at Alex, hesitant, but Alex just rests his chin on the top of John's head and sighs.

"Yeah. That might be a good thing to keep in mind," he agrees.

They drift in silence, after that, Alex uncharacteristically still and quiet as John moves through the water, both of them settled into a comfortable peace.

*

Eventually, Molly and Ben and von Steuben join them off the boat, at which point Alex loudly announces that he's done his boyfriendly duty and he's going to spend the rest of the afternoon reading on deck, like a normal person unlikely to be eaten by a shark. John lets the comment go--he had Alex with him in the water for almost an hour, which is about fifty-five minutes longer than he hoped. He stays with Molly and the others for another hour or so and is finally lured out by the promise of dinner.

It's their last night and Ponter is adamant that they finish as much of the food and beer as possible, so John is full and very nearly drunk by the time he heads to bed, long after the sun has set. He's not quite ready to say goodbye to the shore, but he is _very_ ready to say goodbye to the twin-sized mattress he and Alex are crammed into together.

Despite the postage stamp size of the bed they're sharing, somehow John doesn't wake up when Alex gets out of bed in the middle of the night. He can tell, when he does wake, that Alex has been gone for a while--the space next to him is cool and he can't hear anyone moving around in the cabin, which means this isn't a quick trip to the bathroom.

John gets up as quietly as he can manage, trying not to disturb Molly and Maggie as he slips out of the room and moves slowly through the darkened cabin, then up top onto the deck.

It's brighter out here, but not by much. The moon and stars are largely covered by clouds that drift through the night sky, and the marina they're at tonight is much smaller than the one they docked at last night. There are a few outdoor lights illuminating darkened buildings and a few boats further off that are still lit up, but it's mostly quiet and dim and still. Alex is curled up in the hammock in the corner, sitting vertically instead of horizontally, with his legs dangling over the edge. John approaches him slowly and pulls a deck chair close, taking a seat that's far enough away to give Alex some space, but within reach if John is needed.

"Hey," he whispers.

"Hi," Alex says back. He swings the hammock back and forth, nudging the ground with his toe to start the movement in earnest.

"Did you have a bad dream?" John asks. That's usually what happens when he wakes up alone after Alex has come to bed.

Alex shrugs. "I never really fell asleep. I drifted a little and then something jolted me awake."

"And instead of going back to sleep you came out here?"

Alex shrugs again. "The boat equivalent of pacing on the roof or going for a drive, I guess," he says. That's how they normally deal with this--Alex claims the movement and the fresh air help him clear his head and John is happy to do whatever he can to help. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know," Alex admits. "I don't know what...I don't know." They're both quiet. Alex's hair is a riot, half fallen out of the low ponytail he'd put it in to sleep and sticking up at all angles, a mess of bedhead and tangles. John wants to comb through it and smooth it out, but he stays where he is for the time being.

"I was thinking about sports and hobbies and the beach," Alex says after a few minutes of silence. "I was thinking about...this was nice. With you, today. It was soothing. It was...intimate."

John nods. He should say something, but he's always been terrible at this. He tries to imagine what he would want Alex to say to him in this situation, but a) he's not sure what this situation is, exactly, and b) the truth of it is that he'd always rather not talk about these things if he can help it. 

"Do you remember, earlier this month, when we went to the baseball game?" Alex asks. John nods quickly. "We were on the subway going to the stadium and I made some comment about not knowing the teams and you said...." He chuckles. "You said I was 'performatively disdainful.' Which--that was good, that's a solid word picture you painted, there."

John snorts. "I learned from the master."

"Yeah, well, I'm very good, so I shouldn't be surprised."

John laughs, then, and rests his elbow on the arm of the chair, propping up his chin and smiling fondly at Alex.

"Anyway," Alex says. "That is...one hundred percent accurate. As I'm sure you know. I've been thinking about it because of what Molly said this afternoon--that she can't follow sports but she can't hold sports against anyone because she has the same fanaticism about _Doctor Who_. And I've never thought about it that way before. Even after knowing you and Herc, who are so into sports and shit. I just think of you as exceptions, you know? Like, good dudes who just happen to love sports, not Sports Fans, even though you have, like, fucking jerseys and hats and you made that stupid sign on the fridge counting down to when baseball started."

John wants to tell him that it's a perfectly normal sign, but now probably isn't the time. Instead he admits, "I don't know that I'm following you."

"Sorry." Alex scrubs at his face. "I'm all over the place. Right. So, everything I said about sharks and deep sea creatures and octo _podes_ \--" He gives John a flat look. "--was true. That stuff scares the shit out of me and always has. And the stuff about the beach being gross and hot and sweaty and sandy, that's all true, too. But I would say about fifty percent of my hatred is actually because of growing up on the island."

John's still not following, exactly, but the pieces are starting to come together a little more solidly, so he gestures for Alex to continue.

"It wasn't big, obviously, and there were beaches everywhere, obviously. And the beaches were sort of _the place_ for people to hang out. They were abundant and free and kids could be loud and usually get away with drinking and shit. The usual. Every party was at the beach, every school event. It was where everyone was all the time, so it was hard to go there if you didn't want to be seen. And I never wanted to be seen."

Alex as he is now--twenty-two, obnoxious, confident, brilliant, ambitious--always wants to be seen. Alex as John knows him fights to have the loudest voice, garner the most attention, be the most important. John loves that about him, that he's not afraid to be the best or to stand up for himself, that he's unashamed in his knowledge and skill. It's hard for him to imagine Alex as small and quiet and private, but watching him now, he's getting a pretty good idea.

"I have a feeling this story doesn't have a happy ending," John says, a half-joke in place of grabbing Alex's hand and squeezing it as hard as he can in sympathy.

"It does, actually," Alex says. "I mean, obviously, the ending is that the quiet weirdo nerd kid works his way to college and gets into the grad program of his dreams and falls in love and lets his jackass boyfriend talk him into spending the weekend on a boat where they haven't even managed to have sex, yet." John laughs. "But, yeah. The immediate aftermath of the story isn't great. I had a smart mouth and I was small and poor, even by the standards of the rest of the town, and first my dad left and then I was an orphan. I got the shit beat out of me a lot, usually by jock-y popular guys who wanted to feel important. And it was almost always on the beach, whenever I had the nerve to be in the vicinity of whatever stupid party was going on. Even if I was invited."

Alex is staring off into the distance and he's sad and beautiful in a way that makes it hard for John to breathe. He knew some of this, or at least he guessed it, but having it all laid out like this makes him ache. Makes him ache, but makes him feel a little guilty, too. For one thing, he can't fool himself that he's not pleased to be hearing more about Alex's childhood, that he's not ecstatic every time Alex trusts him enough to share a part of him. For another, John was...well, he wasn't a bully, but he was sort of a jock and definitely popular. He had his own mini-clique and he tried to be kind to the kids who did get bullied and teased, but there was definitely more that he could have done to stop some of the worst offenders. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "That sucks."

"Yeah." Alex snorts. "Yeah, it did. I mean, I wasn't a total social pariah. I had Ned, who would defend me when he was around and try to de-escalate when shit started to hit the fan, but he could only do so much and he wasn't always there. And there were a couple other kids, too, who tried to step in when they could. One guy in particular was on the soccer team and the swim team and he always tried to stop them from coming at me. It didn't always work, but he still never let them start shit in front of him without saying something." Alex shakes his head. "I don't know why. God, I fucking blew him off every time, shook off his help, told him to leave me alone. I was embarrassed and I had, like a huge fucking crush on him, but I made myself think of him as one of them. One of the ignorant neanderthals. It never stopped him from helping, though."

"That was good of him," John says, at a loss for anything else to add. "I'm sure he knew you were embarrassed, but felt like he still had to help."

Alex turns back to him, grinning. "Let me guess--that was your role in high school?"

"I--" John starts to say, but then stops and spreads his hands beseechingly. It was, and he can't deny it. "Kind of."

"I should have known," Alex says. "For all your scrappy bullshit, you love an underdog."

"I just...hate seeing people get bullshit they don't deserve," John says. Maybe because he spent a lifetime fighting his own feelings of having everything good in life handed to him when he'd done nothing but fuck up left and right since he was a child.

But he doesn't want to go down that road. He's trying to make up for that now, trying to make his own way. This is a vacation and he doesn't want to spend it spiraling down into his regrets.

"I know," Alex says, with such gentleness, such fondness that a lump forms in John's throat. "That's one of the things I love most about you."

John fumbles for something to say to that, something that's not just _I love it about you too, I love everything about you, I'm so proud of you, I'm so humbled by all you've done and all you continue to do, any brilliance I have is surely just reflected off of you_.

"I wish I could have been there for you," is what he says.

"Nah." Alex waves him off. "You don't. For one, I wouldn't wish that fucking island on anyone. For another, I'd've probably been as shitty and resentful about it as I was about the kids who stood up for me back then. I'd rather know you now, when I'm not afraid to rely on you. Also, I'm hotter and less of a shithead."

John laughs. "I wouldn't go that far."

"A different kind of shithead," Alex amends. "Anyway, don't front, my being an asshole is your favorite thing about me."

"It's true," John agrees, and they grin at each other.

"Anyway," Alex says. "The point is, I started getting panic attacks and shit whenever I had to go to the beach. And it's kind of better now, but still not great. And between that and the shit that lives in the ocean and what a pain being on the beach is in the first place, I'd just as soon avoid it."

Alex looks more himself, now. He's less curled inward, his expression is more animated. He's less sad. 

"I'm sorry," John says.

"What for?"

"I talked you into this," John reminds him. "You didn't want to do it and then I talked you into it. And...I was kind of a dick to you yesterday morning."

"Nah," Alex says. "I was being obstinate. I was pissy and I kept escalating shit. It was as much my fault as anyone's."

"Yeah," John says, rubbing the back of his neck, "but you were hurting and I was a dick."

"But you didn't _know_ I was hurting," Alex says. "I didn't tell you, I just bitched and snapped at you. You're not a fucking mindreader, babe. I should have said something."

Alex stands up from the hammock and grabs John's hand, pulling him to his feet and then leading him over to the lounge bench they spend a good part of the day on. He pushes John down until he's sitting on it, then sits next to him. Alex rests his head on John's shoulder and then lifts John's arm and wraps it around his own shoulders until John gets the idea and pulls Alex up against him. Alex tucks his head under John's chin and hums.

"I'm still sorry," John murmurs.

"I know," Alex says. "I am too."

They settle in, curled up comfortably against each other and John murmurs, "Thanks."

"Hm?"

"For coming out there with me today. For coming on this trip with me. Even though you have a pretty good reason not to."

"I think we've established that you can talk me into basically anything," Alex says. John hopes he knows it goes the other way, too.

The night is quiet and warm, even with the breeze coming off the water. They listen to the gentle lapping of the water and the occasional hum of a car driving by on the road beyond the marina. It's another one of those perfect moments, where John can't imagine being anywhere else or doing anything else that could be better than being right here, right now.

He amends that thought when Alex's hand slips beneath his shirt and starts to gently massage his hip.

"I did promise you we would have sex on this boat," John murmurs into Alex's hair.

"You did," Alex says. John can feel his smile against his collarbone.

And, yeah, maybe the moment can get just a little more perfect after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular updates next week on Tuesday and Friday, but there may be an extra one in there to make up for this week's skip. Stay tuned....


	7. Part One: VI. things we're all too young to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day at the Washingtons' provides a window into the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! We get three updates this week--today, Wednesday, and Friday. I wanted to get all of this part posted before Yuletide hits and everyone is otherwise occupied, heh.
> 
> After this week, I'm going to take a few weeks off before I start posting Part Two. I'm aiming to start by mid-January, but there are some things I need to factor into it, so we'll see.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting--it's a light in the darkness of this bleak season.
> 
> (Title of this section from "The Book of Love" by the Magnetic Fields)

It's bittersweet, packing up on Sunday morning. They all have breakfast together and go on one last swim (with Alex securely on deck, once again) before bringing the boat back to its original mooring. It's lunchtime by the time the boat is clean and the cars are packed, so they grab some food at a tiny seafood shack on the edge of town. The rest of the gang is just as sorry to leave as John, though he can tell that Alex is itching to get back to Morristown. While John's excited to spend the night in his own bed with enough room to stretch out, he still finds himself watching the shoreline when they finally drive away, until it's obscured by buildings and trees in the distance behind them. It aches a little, leaving the ocean behind, but he reminds himself that they're only ninety minutes or so away from the beach--he can come back whenever he wants. 

They end up in crazy traffic for most of the drive home, inching along the highway with every other vacationgoer on their way back to their everyday life. They stop for ice cream right before they get on the highway, which John regrets as soon as they start driving again. He sleeps for most of the drive, but he still gets queasy enough that he has to sit on the hood of his car for a few minutes once they finally, _finally_ get back, letting his stomach settle before he can drive home from von Steuben's.

The Washingtons left for vacation early this morning and, with their permission, Herc offered to take the dogs out tonight in case John and Alex got delayed. John had hoped that would be unnecessary, but he's so wiped that even the thought of lying on the ground with Nelson and Blue isn't enough motivation to drive across town. Instead, he texts Herc and tells him to go over, then gets in the car with Alex and drives straight back to the apartment. It's barely nine by the time they get in, but John goes straight into the shower and then straight into bed. Alex isn't far behind him, which is the real testament to how long their day was--if it's rare for John to be in bed at nine, it's unheard of for Alex to be in bed by nine. He's there all the same, though, sliding into bed behind John and yawning loudly, the last thing John hears before he passes out.

The weekend was a nice break from the Upstairs circus, but Monday morning once again starts with shouting above their heads. This time it's very obviously loud, enthusiastic sex shouting. John's not sure if that's better or worse than the arguments.

"It's not even sexy," Alex mutters, pulling his pillow over his face. "At least if it was sexy, we could join in down here." 

"Speak for yourself," John says. "I'm not competing in sex olympics against upstairs. There is nothing less sexy."

"Babe, it's cute that you're all acting like you have standards, but we both know that's a lie," Alex says.

John hits him with a pillow.

They drag themselves out of bed eventually, when Mr. Upstairs starts to get a little too explicit for John's stomach to handle. Alex makes coffee while John's in the shower and John makes breakfast while Alex is in the shower and after a few minutes of eating and catching up on the internet, they gather their things together to return to the lab, with a pit stop at the Washingtons' along the way.

"A couple days away with you was nice despite the boat and the ocean and Ponce, but I'm getting itchy to get back to work," Alex says as John drives them to the Washingtons'. "There's so much stuff I could be doing for the blog. I think I'm only about a week and a half ahead at this point and I like to keep that solid two week buffer."

"You're such a nerd," John says.

"You always say that like that's not half the reason you think I'm hot to begin with."

When he parks in the Washingtons' driveway and sees the dogs run to peer out the bay window, John feels immediately guilty. Sure, Herc fed them last night, and he probably let them run around and have some fun, but John probably shouldn't have abandoned their care to someone else.

"I hope they're not all messed up, going from the Washingtons to Herc to us over a few days' time," he says as they approach the house. 

"They're _dogs_ ," Alex says. "They're just happy someone is feeding them."

"I am honestly constantly surprised that I'm attracted to you," John says. "They recognize different people, you know. They miss people and they get confused when they can't find someone who's supposed to be there."

Side-long, he sees Alex rolls his eyes, though Alex doesn't intend him to see the gesture. "Then give them some extra hugs and treats," he says and almost sounds like he's not blowing the conversation off completely.

John barely manages to close and lock the front door, the dogs are so happy to see him. As soon as he's done, he drops his bag and his keys and kneels down to greet them.

"Hello, boys," he coos. "I'm sorry I haven't been by to see you. I missed you too!" 

Alex sighs theatrically. John ignores him.

"My favorite boys, yes, I missed you," he says as Nelson and Blue slobber all over his face.

He herds the dogs to the kitchen, where Alex is already putting on coffee, and starts to fill their food bowls, Nelson still darting around him, sticking close, even as Blue wanders off to smell Alex's shoes and then stare up at him balefully.

"You're standing by the treats," John tells him. And Alex, because he's an asshole, moves further away instead of giving into Blue's pleas.

Even Nelson can't stay distracted for long where food is concerned, though, so once John backs away from their bowls, both dogs abandon him to focus on breakfast. John takes a seat at the kitchen table with Alex, gratefully accepting a mug of coffee.

They sit in silence for a few minutes as the dogs munch away against the wall. John's eyes wander around the room without taking much in--he's been in this kitchen a dozen times before. He's never been here alone, however, and as he turns that fact over in his head, his vision becomes sharper. He's never really _looked_ at the kitchen. Well, maybe he did the first time he was here last summer, but since then it's all faded into the background--the pictures and coupons and newspaper clippings stuck to the fridge, the ASPCA calendar on the wall, the canisters of flour, sugar, coffee, and powdered sugar labeled in neat cursive on little decorative chalkboards that hang from their latches. There's an index card with a recipe on it wedged into a cabinet door between the front and the decorative molding around the edge. It's too far away to read, but it's stained and worn, like it's been there for a long time and gotten a lot of use.

There are little touches like that all over the kitchen--the mugs that Washington and Mrs. Washington like best sitting next to the coffeemaker, a post-it note with the days that the town picks up garbage and recycling, another with phone numbers scrawled across it hanging over the wall phone. And here, in the center of this lived-in, well-loved kitchen are John and Alex, Alex sipping his coffee and reading the newspaper he brought in from the driveway and John across from him, absently watching the dogs.

 _Our next place will be bigger,_ Alex had said the day they first looked at their new apartment. Is this their future? Alex and John, in a nice house in the suburbs, eating breakfast in their kitchen with their dogs like this is their every day, like they're real adults with real lives?

Finished with breakfast, Nelson comes over and nudges his hand, pulling him out of his reverie. Once he sees that he's gotten John's attention, he walks pointedly over to the porch door, where Blue is already waiting.

"I'm gonna go out with them," John says, nodding towards the door.

"Mmhm," Alex says without looking up from the paper. "I'll be out in a minute."

The dogs run out into the yard as soon as John opens the door. It's a beautiful day, the sky a perfect blue and the clouds so white and fluffy that they might as well be out of a movie. He hesitates in the doorway and then quickly darts back inside and into the living room, where he grabs his sketchbook and pencil case out of his bag before returning to the backyard. Hopefully if he engages the drawing part of his brain, the newly formed worrying-about-the-future part of his brain will be quiet for a few minutes.

The dogs run this way and that, barking happily and heading to the far corner to do their business in the designated area. John sits on the porch steps and opens his sketchbook, staring at all the possibilities calling out to him. Mrs. Washington's garden, the sky, the trees, the dogs, the clouds reflected in the surface of the pool....

Behind him, the door opens again and then closes. Alex sits next to him, pulling his bag off and leaving it on the top step.

"Drawing something?" Alex asks.

"I haven't decided what, yet," John says, but even as he says it, he's staring at Mrs. Washington's garden, at the bright spray of flowers and the sunflowers towering in the back.

His mother loved sunflowers.

God, he hasn't thought about his mother's sunflowers in years, even though he has a painting of them framed. She fucking loved those sunflowers out in her weird little garden.

He digs into his pencil case for something to sketch with, still looking out at the sunflowers and turning them over in his mind's eye, trying to decide how to interpret them. Beside him, Alex gets up.

"Gonna get my coffee," he says. "Do you want yours?"

"Sure," John says, though he's not paying attention.

He is paying attention a few seconds later when Alex hisses, "Oh, _fuck_!"

"Are you okay?" John asks quickly, but Alex doesn't look hurt, he just looks...pissed.

"The door was locked!" he says. "I pulled the door shut behind me and it was locked!"

John goes to grab the keys out of his bag and then freezes. His bag is in the living room. And his keys are on the floor next to it.

"Oh!" he says, completing the thought out loud, "but you have your bag! Fuck, but Herc has your key. Wait! Herc has your key, we can just call him."

Jesus, that was a wild ride of rising and falling anxiety. John's shoulders relax, but Alex still looks irked.

"Herc's all the way in town!"

"Well, call him and tell him to come over," John says. "We're fed, the dogs are fed, we don't have anything pressing. We'll be fine."

Alex groans and throws himself into a deck chair. John ignores him and grabs his bag, pulling it over within reach.

"I'm taking your pouch of pens and shit," he says. Alex makes a vague affirmative noise and John grabs it and his own pencil case and his sketchbook and then moves down to the lawn, sprawling on the grass and getting comfortable, then flattening out a two-page spread in his sketchbook and beginning some preliminary studies of the sunflowers in front of him. Nelson trots over and sniffs his head and his collection of pouches, then wanders away again. Blue is chilling in the shade, gnawing on a toy happily.

"Hey, it's Alex, I've got an emergency....no, he's fine, I'm fine, we're fine." John detects a hint of impatience in Alex's voice as he confirms that neither of them are hurt. "We locked ourselves out of the Washingtons' place and we need you to bring the key over....no, but it's gonna get hot and we don't have all day....fine, fine, whatever. Thanks." Then Alex sighs loudly and the chair he's sitting in screeches across the deck as he get to his feet. "I'm going to go and look around and make sure we didn't miss an open window or something."

"Have fun," John says without looking up.

Alex mutters something as he walks past, but John doesn't catch it and doesn't care to. He focuses instead on his drawings, on the thumbnails of different styles he's throwing down quickly before he commits to what he wants to do. He looks through his pencil case and Alex's pouch of writing utensils and pulls out some highlighters which he puts in a pile in front of him. He also liberates a sharpie and tucks it over his ear, then gets back to work. 

Nelson wanders back over while John sketches and settles in the grass next to him. John loses himself for a little while after that, tossing out a couple ideas and finally turning the page and starting a few larger drawings half-based on the flowers in front of him and half taken from his own brain. Drawing from memory is always a tricky endeavor. He thinks that artists are supposed to be more creative, supposed to be able to conjure things directly from their mind, but it always makes John nervous. He can never get things down in precisely the way he wants and he's always afraid he's leaving something important out. No one is going to see this except him, though, and he's got a reference right in front of him. This isn't something fancy or an assignment, it's just some fun to kill time. He just needs to relax.

By the time Alex circles back around the back of the house, John has gotten comfortable and begun to sketch in earnest. Nelson is sniffing around next to him again, nuzzling his shoulders periodically, trying to get John to play with him. Alex shoos him away once he's close enough.

"Leave him alone," John says lightly. He's filled a two page spread with quick drawings, now, all different styles of sunflowers. Alex sits next to him, crosslegged on the grass, and watches him. 

"I can't believe we lost the key on the first day," Alex says.

"We didn't lose it, we know exactly where it is." John doesn't look up from his drawing. "Where it is just happens to be inside the locked house. Herc'll be here soon." He puts his pencil down and pulls the sharpie from behind his ear, uncapping it and tracing over some of the lines, turning the sketch into a bolder, more cartoonish drawing. "Hand me that yellow highlighter, would you? The dark yellow one, not the neon yellow." 

Alex picks out the marker that John wants and passes it over, then leans back on his elbows and out of John's peripheral vision. John shades in some of the sunflower messily with the highlighter, deliberately splashing the color outside the lines he's traced with the sharpie. He switches back and forth between the three of them a few times--pencil, sharpie, and highlighter--doing his best to replicate the look of watercolors. It's not perfect, but given his limited materials, it's not half bad, either. It looks almost like a tattoo, and the color contrast is interesting enough that he might try it again when he gets home and has access to the proper watercolors he hasn't really messed around with since he got to Morristown. This long, quiet summer might be a good time to get back into that habit, to reacquaint himself with all the artforms he's cast aside over the past decade in an effort to prove to his father that he was a serious man with serious hobbies.

He re-caps the highlighter and drops it back onto the pile when he's done, then picks up a pencil to start sketching another sunflower. He goes for a more realistic look this time, concentrating first on the general shape and then giving delicate detail to the petals.

"Are you just gonna do a whole page of sunflowers?" Alex asks.

"Maybe." John erases a few stray lines and then smudges the graphite on a few others. "I like sunflowers."

Alex shifts again next to him, this time flopping onto his stomach in front of John. He pulls out his phone and sighs loudly--no word from Herc, then--and taps around on it, playing a game.

"It's fucking hot," Alex says.

"Then go for a dip in the pool," John says. He can't seem to get the shading right on the left side of the drawing.

"I don't have a bathing suit. Also, I hate swimming."

"Then just take off your clothes. No one's here."

"I can't _skinny-dip_ in our boss' pool!" 

John maybe said that just to hear Alex make that tiny, scandalized noise.

"Then go in your boxers," John says, but Alex just huffs and rolls onto his back.

Nelson wanders back over, with his collar jangling and a chewed up frisbee hanging out of his mouth. He looks mournfully at Alex and then drops the sticky plastic onto his lap, panting expectantly.

"He wants you to throw it," John says, when it becomes clear Alex isn't going to move.

"I'm not an idiot," Alex says. He nudges it with one tentative finger, his nose scrunched up.

"You're such a priss," John says.

"If you knew the fucking conditions I grew up in on the island...."

"And yet you won't pick up a frisbee that a dog licked."

Alex flips him off, but it rolls off John like water off a duck. He focuses on his sketch again, vaguely aware of Nelson whimpering at Alex pushing the frisbee further away. He gets up and comes over to John instead, circling around and then lying down with his head within petting distance. John gives in and absently scratches behind his ears. Alex groans and gets up again, this time flopping down with his head resting at the small of John's back.

"My poor, bored baby," John murmurs. "Don't be jealous of the dog, I still love you best."

"Fuck off. I'm not _jealous_ of the dog," he says in a way that makes it clear he's jealous of the dog. He sighs again and rolls onto his side, his head rising and falling as John breathes in and out. It's hot and John is lying directly in the sun and Alex's weight on his back isn't making him less gross and sweaty, but he doesn't mind it. Even when he's needling Alex for the sake of it, he's still comforted by his presence. Sometimes just knowing Alex is there is enough to ease his frayed nerves. His nerves aren't frayed today, not yet anyway, and he's enjoying pushing Alex's buttons, but he still likes that familiar weight against him.

If they're going to be locked out, at least it's a beautiful day. At least they're together.

"Why do you like sunflowers?" Alex asks after a moment.

"Hm?"

"I mean, is it just like, aesthetic? Does it have some deeper metaphorical meaning?"

"Not really a deeper metaphorical meaning, but I could probably make one up for you if you want," John says. Alex chuckles, a soft, amused sound in contrast to the show he was making of being put-out. John can see the curl of that smile in his mind, the fond purse of his lips. "My mom liked sunflowers. She grew them in this weird little wildflower garden she had behind the house. Like, we had big, professionally tended gardens out front, facing the driveway, but around back she had this, like, five by ten patch of soil that she just filled with whatever flowers she felt like that year. But there was always a row of sunflowers along the back and the sides."

"That's...." Alex pauses. "That's sweet."

John ducks his head, flushing, though Alex can't see him. He's not sure where this sudden flash of embarrassment came from, like he's said too much. Granted, this is far more than he usually shares with Alex about his mother, his family, his childhood. It's not Alex's fault; he _wants_ to share things with him. He wants Alex to know every part of him, every bit of his history, everything that he's been through. Intellectually, at least. He likes the idea of it, of being an open book to this person he loves so much. The reality is harder to wrestle with. There are so many things in his past that are hard or painful or both, so many things that make it clear that John is a fuck-up, that John has caused terrible things to happen, that tragedy follows him. There are so many things that might be that one thing that pushes Alex over into shock or disgust. He wants Alex to know him. He wants to give that to Alex. But, in the end, he's selfish. He wants Alex. He needs Alex. He can't drive Alex away by showing him something that he can't take back.

The sunflowers, though--the sunflowers are safe. The sunflowers are a good memory he can share, a small, warm thing he can give Alex about the boy he used to be.

"I don't know if it's sweet," John says. He shrugs--the movement shifts Alex up and down. "It is what it is, I guess. But they were there when I was growing up, and Dad knew she liked them, so sometimes he'd bring a bunch home for her and she'd put them on the table. Even after she died, when he had the gardener take over that back garden, he made sure she left the sunflowers along the edges."

"I still think your dad is kind of a shithead, but that's cool of him."

"He loved her a lot," John says. His voice wavers at the end as he has to clear his throat. He's not sure if it's missing his mother or missing his father that's filled his stomach with knots, but it's a little hard to breathe, all of a sudden. Because he does miss his father. He misses his whole family, his mother, his father, his sisters, his brothers. He misses South Carolina and summers running around the estate. He misses his father ruffling his hair and riding their bikes around the winding back roads together. He misses not having to remind himself that there's somewhere he belongs, just knowing it in his DNA without the creeping doubt that plagues him sometimes still. Even on the days when all he can be sure of is the fact that Alex loves him, he feels that despair inching forward, that fear that Alex may love him, but he'll never be good for Alex. How can he be Alex's family when he can't even manage to be family to his flesh and blood?

He swallows and clears his throat. He doesn't want to ruin their warm, peaceful afternoon.

"So if I asked you to make up a deeper metaphorical meaning, what would you say?" Alex asks, perhaps sensing his discomfort.

"Hm." For a moment, John focuses on his drawing, on the scratch of pencil against paper, on the sound of the birds in the trees. He re-centers himself, pushes himself to disconnect from the past and remember that he's here with Alex, enjoying the sunshine and his favorite dogs and his favorite human. "I would say that they're tough--wild sunflowers spread like weeds. You can't get rid of them. And as they're growing, they turn towards the sun. I admire that kind of positivity, if only because I'm so shit at it." He hums thoughtfully. "I'm trying to come up with something else about how the yellow petals are a decoy--they're sterile and it's the little flower petals in the center that really aid reproduction--but I can't come up with anything flattering."

"Pretty on the outside, but working hard beneath the surface?" Alex suggests before John can do something embarrassing like comment on the way he orients himself towards Alex as if he was the sun.

"Maybe."

"There's a dick joke in there somewhere. A show-er and a grower?" John sputters out a laugh and rolls over, knocking Alex off and shoving him. Alex laughs too and shoves him back. "It's a compliment! Because I love your dick! And, come on, if we're being honest--"

John laughs again. "Shut up!" he says and gives Alex another shove and soon enough they're wrestling in the grass, Nelson jumping up and running circles around them, clearly excited by the thought that they might be about to play with him. John overpowers Alex easily enough, pinning him to the grass, stretched out above him. It's easy to forget the past like this, with Alex's body warm and firm beneath his, a sparkle in his eyes and a flush across his cheeks. His Alexander, happy and bright--he really is the sun, and John is helpless to do anything but reach out and soak in his light.

"You've got me," Alex says breathlessly.

"I have for a while, I think," John murmurs, his heart stuttering in his chest, his stomach twisting pleasantly. 

"You have," Alex agrees. He slides his arms free and reaches up, cupping John's jaw and drawing him down for a kiss. He's smiling smugly as their lips meet, happy, John knows, to have gotten his way after all, to spend this indeterminate stretch of time kissing in the sun, bodies pressed close. He had Alex less than twelve hours ago, but he already wants him again. Half of that is because he's twenty-three with a hot boyfriend and a currently healthy libido, but the other half is that it's just _fun_. Being intimate with Alex, rolling around and touching each other, laughing and joking and making him feel good--there are few things that bring him that much joy. It's sex, sure, but it's also sharing these moments of happiness with his best friend in the world, just the two of them.

They don't progress much further than heavy petting. When they hear Herc pull into the driveway there's no way not to look like they were rolling around in the grass, sucking each other's faces, but they don't look indecent, at least.

"Locked the key in on your first day," Herc says, shaking his head as they get to their feet. Both Nelson and Blue run over to sniff at him and greet him and he kneels down to pet them both.

"Thank you so much!" Alex says. "Fuck, we owe you."

"Buy me a drink tonight," he says. He tosses the keys to John--a good idea, given Alex's inability to catch basically anything tossed in his direction--and then points at each of them in turn. "Both of you. Two drinks. One from each."

"Happily," John says. "Thanks for running the key over, Alex was going to go out of his mind with boredom."

"Looks to me like you were keeping him pretty entertained," Herc says, and it's so unexpected that John flushes. "See you kids later--I've gotta get back to work."

"Thanks again!" Alex calls after him, and he waves and then disappears through the gate and around the front of the house again.

John holds the key ring out to Alex. "Go on. You're the one who wanted to get inside so badly."

"Well, my coffee's gonna be cold _now_ ," Alex grumbles as he heads over to the porch.

"Like I haven't seen you drink cold coffee before," John says, gathering his art supplies off the ground before trailing him inside, dogs in tow.

Inside, Alex starts cleaning up the kitchen and John retreats first to the living room to put away his art supplies and then to the bathroom down the hall to wash his hands. Away from the shuffling of Alex in the kitchen, he's struck again by how quiet the house is, how strange it is to be here, how personalized and lived-in it is, filled with little flourishes that have become part of the background over repeat visits. All of his thoughts from earlier, about the house, about this sort of domestic life he's building with Alex brick by brick, come back to him as he wanders down the hallway.

As he walks back towards the living room, he trails his fingers over the edge of the picture frames. He's been here a million times and never looked at them, not closely. The entire house seems different without Mrs. Washington or Dr. Washington or even Lafayette banging around in some distant room. It's still and quiet and neat and without conversation and dinner and big personalities to distract him, he feels like he's taking it in for the first time, this _home_ that screams "George and Martha Washington" even while they're miles and miles away.

He barely hears Alex come up behind him. He doesn't touch John, but he's standing so close John can feel his body heat and hear his quiet breaths. 

"God, look how young Patsy is there," John says, touching the edge of a picture frame on a bookshelf in the living room. And she is--maybe seven at most, with a missing tooth and her hair in puff ball pigtails. Washington is standing awkwardly behind her with one hand on her shoulder and the other around Martha's waist, while Jack is standing on Martha's other side. "This must be right around the time they got married."

"What did Patsy say at Thanksgiving?" Alex asks. "She was five?"

"Six," John says. "Jack was eight."

On the table below the picture are some more photos, including one of Martha with the man who must be her first husband. He's the spitting image of Jack, down to the crooked tilt to his smile. Patsy has always looked like Martha--curvy and short with bright eyes and the same round nose--but looking at young Martha is like looking at Patsy's twin. Martha and her first husband look completely smitten, so in love that it shines out of the picture.

"She must have loved him a lot," Alex murmurs, reading John's mind, as always. "She loves Washington a lot too, though."

"Guess that proves the 'one true love' thing is bullshit," John says.

Alex hums under his breath and leans against John's back. "I don't know...."

"Oh, come on," John says, nudging him. "Are you saying you won't date anyone else if I die suddenly?"

Alex exhales. His breath rustles the curls tucked behind John's ear. "First off, I never want to hear you casually talk about dying suddenly ever again." John rolls his eyes. "But...I mean, academically, objectively, yeah, I guess I would. But...I don't know." He steps away from John to examine the two pictures more closely--George and Martha with the kids, Martha and Daniel at their wedding. He bends over, hands clasped behind his back, oddly quiet, and then straightens up and looks at John again. "I don't know," he says again. "The moment I first saw you, I knew I wanted to sleep with you. Which isn't love at first sight, by any means, but even that first night--we talked all night. I had never done that with anyone before, just stayed up and talked and shared stories and learned all about them. It was so different from anything I'd experienced, and maybe that's just what being in love is like, but it happened so fast--I don't know."

It's Alex's turn to wander through the living room, peering at photos and knick-knacks, not quite looking at John, though John has a feeling that's for his benefit rather than Alex's own. John follows, just a few steps behind, struggling to find something to say.

"I don't have a lot of friends," Alex finally says. "I think that's what makes me pause more than anything else. The idea of being that close to someone else--as close as I am to you--seems crazy because I'm barely friend-close with people. People like me, I know, but I just never seem to reach out to them, outside Laf and Herc."

"I mean, we're pretty insular," John says, shrugging a little and poking at a candle holder shaped like a tree.

"Yeah, but it's more than that," Alex says. "Like...we're insular, but you have friends. You have Molly and Dolley and Ben Walker and Tad and even, like, Jamika and Ponter."

"You're friends with them too," John argues.

"Not like you are," Alex insists. "You're like, texting friends. Hanging out friends. If it wasn't for von Steuben's parties and you, I'd never see them and not be particularly upset about it, you know? But you text Molly, you go out to photography shows with Dolley, you trade books with Ben, you go to the gym with Jamika...that's like...friendship. And I don't have that, which is fine because I don't miss it, really, but that's part of why it seems so crazy to me, finding someone else. I barely have friends, how can I find someone else who makes me feel the way you do?"

John lets that settle for a moment. It's nothing he hasn't suspected or casually known, but much like looking around the Washingtons' house and seeing it for the first time, he's not sure he really thought about it before now. He's not sure he really understood it. 

"You deserve to be happy," John says slowly. He's still not sure what he needs to say, but he knows he needs to say something and the longer the silence stretches out, the less likely he is to say it. "And I know you're happy with your work, but I always want you to have everything you need, everything you want. Even if I were gone, I'd want that."

Alex laughs, high and nervous. "God, can we...can we not?" he says. "Can we stop talking about you being gone?" He turns around, a pained, nervous approximation of a smile on his face. "Fuck."

"Sorry," John says. He reaches out one hand and Alex takes it in both of his own, but doesn't step any closer. "I'm not trying to--I'm just saying that I always want you to be as happy as you can be. And, to be honest--these past few weeks--"

He falters and wants to drop Alex's hand and retreat for a moment to think this through, to figure out how to say it right. It's hard to put into words without drifting into places he doesn't want to go and Alex _definitely_ won't want to go. But Alex's grip is steady and John knows Alex won't begrudge him the extra time it takes to think this through, word by word.

"These past few weeks," he tries again, "you've been talking about your ten-year-plan and your future and your goals and that's never been stuff that I've had. It's never been--I've never planned for that. But you say it so casually, you just...don't think twice about building this life and building me into it. You have this confidence in me that no one else ever has. You have this conviction that I'll always be there for you and you'll always want me. And that should be scary or strange or weird--we haven't even know each other for a year--but it's not at all. It's not even scary that it's not scary."

His words are getting away from him, but Alex is still quietly allowing him to say his piece.

"What I mean," he tries again, looking Alex in the eyes for the first time, "is that for the first time in a long time you make me want to think about the future. Which doesn't seem like a big deal, I'm sure, but like...god, it's been years and years and years since I even...imagined it. But being around you...it feels like it's okay. I don't know. I'm not saying it right."

He doesn't know _how_ to say it right, though, so he just stares helplessly at Alex and shrugs.

"You are saying it right," Alex says softly. "You're saying it fine. I get it. I want you to have a future. I want you to feel welcome in my future. And, you know, I'm glad I'm not the only one picking out china patterns and naming the kids."

He's joking, but he's not. He wants it to seem like a joke, but John can read the truth of it in his tone and it almost makes him sway on his feet. Raising kids, like fucking adults. Jesus. And it should be crazy and it _is_ a little crazy, but a part of him actually...wants it. After years of never planning more than six months in advance, he can actually picture himself settling down with Alex in a house like this, with a couple kids running around raising hell. It's insane--he remembers all too well what happened the last time he was left alone with a child--but it also feels...natural. Like that's the natural trajectory they're on.

Fuck. There are a million things he needs to do before he even _considers_ that, but...it doesn't seem like a stretch to start having that conversation in a few years.

Fuck fuck fuck, that's...heavy.

"And I hope you know," Alex continues once he's given that a moment to settle, "that this isn't...nothing I want is set in stone. Which is maybe my monumental discovery. If you've never thought about the future, I've never thought about changing my future to fit someone else's plans. But I will. As time goes on, as things change, as we start to figure out where we're going in life...this is all open to revision. Having you with me is more important than almost anything else. I'd do a lot to keep you with me, John Laurens. More than I ever could have imagined."

John's heart is beating wildly, slamming against his rib cage so hard that he's surprised his whole body isn't shaking with it. The house seems unnaturally quiet. Even the dogs have hidden themselves away somewhere, unmoving and silent. It's just him and Alex, in the middle of the living room, holding hands and staring at each other with this knowledge between them. It's not new knowledge, exactly, but it's the first time John has thought about it in concrete terms like this.

John is going to marry this man one day. John is going to have a career and a life and a family with this man. John is going to grow old with this man.

John is going to grow old.

"Fuck," he says out loud, a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah," Alex says. He offers John the start of a smile and John smiles back, shaky and scared but real and bright and ready for whatever the world throws at them.


	8. Part One: VII. my life is working better now (it's always changing anyhow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are fireworks and "fireworks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is explicit, fyi! I know the whole story is marked as such, but just in case you were like, "There haven't been any sex scenes in a while, I can read this at work!"...be aware, heh.
> 
> One more short chapter on Friday and then we take our holiday break. I'm sorry in advance.
> 
> Chapter title via Dar Williams' "Farewell to the Old Me."

The week that follows is everything that John imagined their summer would be, minus the raucous upstairs neighbors. They start each day off going to the Washingtons' house and feeding the dogs. John runs around with them and Alex makes coffee in the Washingtons' fancy coffee machine and then they clean up and drink their coffee on the porch or in the kitchen, chatting amiably or just sitting in comfortable silence. They go to the lab next and alternate projects, sometimes working on their slide deck for the IAP conference and sometimes cataloging books. John spends some time trawling photography websites to work on this project he's been picking at on and off for the past six months and Alex does website stuff. They have lunch on campus or drive into town and pick something up to bring to the Washingtons', where John lets the dogs out again. They finish up in the lab in the afternoon, give the dogs dinner, and then usually end up at the bar or out with Herc. They crash at home or in the lab, depending on the noise levels from Upstairs, and then do the whole thing again the next day.

It's amazing how light John feels, how easy it is to fall into this. They're on top of all of their obligations, making their own schedules, spending time together and with their other friends. For the first time in _years_ he's not anxious and stressed, worried every moment that either he going to have to give in and apply to law school or his father will find out he doesn't want to go to law school or he has to be on top of all of his projects to prove his worth or he has to juggle working and TAing and classes. It's like a dream.

The days all start to blur together, but at some point in the middle of the week, John and Alex are relaxing in Washington's office and cataloging books. Well. "Cataloging." They're doing the work, but they're also taking time to flip through the old texts and read choice bits out loud to each other. He let Alex put on music, which is usually the one thing in their relationship that can be contentious, given Alex's vocal dislike of everything in John's library. John's in a good mood, though, so he lets Alex play Common on Washington's computer, turned down low enough that they can hear each other. John's stretched out on the sofa and Alex is in Washington's desk chair, spinning slowly as he looks through a book. John has to look away--he's getting nauseous just watching him.

"'A true demonologist will cleanse himself spiritually before beginning any new exploration,'" Alex reads aloud. "'A minimum of two hours of prayers and confession is suggested, and one should return to the church to be re-cleansed after every significant outing. The only way to prevent possession and torment is to strengthen the holy light within you.'"

"The depressing thing about that is that it's probably not out of line with what some of the religious nuts still believe today," John says dryly as he turns a page in his book. It's one of three that were bound together in moth-eaten ribbon. The middle book, a parapsych text from the twenties, wasn't super interesting, but the first and third are journals and interesting in that sort of quaint-olden-times way. They're all about a long-debunked arm of parapsych and it's kind of neat drawing lines between what those old beliefs actually turned out to mean.

"What've you got?" Alex asks, coming to a stop by putting his feet up on the couch.

"Journals," John says. "Kind of cool in a historical way. This one's from some kind of cult that worshipped demons and tried to lure them with mirrors." He tosses it to Alex when he opens his hands. Alex runs his fingers over the aging cover with the cult's weird winged-lizard symbol on the front, then flips through it. "It gets pretty gruesome. I stopped reading when they got into human sacrifice."

"Gross," Alex says, but he keeps flipping through.

"This one," John says, waving the journal he's been reading, "is some dude in the '40s who was researching the cult and the mirrors and demons and shit."

"Demons," Alex says, shaking his head. "Imagine dedicating your entire career to hunting a thing that doesn't exist."

"I mean, that probably loops back around to your religious text," John says. "Church people seem to have no problem with it."

"Church people believe what they study is true," Alex counters.

"So did the demon people back in the day," John says. "So did lots of science-types. Years and years dedicating yourself to a theory that gets disproven...." John shrugs. "This field is so unknown, still. That dude studying demons, he was my grandpa's age. Demons were disproven, what, a decade later? Two at most? Imagine seeing everything you studied just wiped away. Who knows what other theories are going to go the way of demons and extra-dimensional whatever bullshit those people were into. Sure, we know those things are wrong now, but we also think our spirit classification is right. What if something proves it wrong tomorrow or next week or next year?"

Alex has stopped looking through the cult's journal and is frowning at John. "Where's all this coming from?"

John shrugs. "Nowhere in particular. Just reading all these outdated books. These and the other ones we've looked at. They're interesting historically, but I keep thinking about the people who wrote them, I guess because someone literally wrote these. It's harder to have distance than it is with a mass printed book. It's personal, knowing that it was this guy’s work that was refuted. Like, it's cool when there are new discoveries in the field, but we're the ones researching now. It's possible that some of those studies are going to nullify our research."

"Or that some of our studies are gonna nullify some other asshole's research," Alex says.

"I forgot," John says, snorting, "you're always right."

"I can't believe you forgot something so vital."

John throws the other journal at him and he catches it, laughing.

"Come on," Alex says. "It's our Best Summer Ever. We need to believe we're gonna be the innovators."

"I do," John says, and it's almost the truth. "But, you know. Sometimes I think about the future and wonder how it's gonna all shake out."

More and more lately, actually. This shit never used to bother him. It's easy not to worry about the future when you don't believe you have one. Now that he's making plans, he's opening a door for those anxieties to come flowing in. What if he's not smart enough or successful enough? What if he never amounts to anything more than a footnote on Alex's story?

"It's gonna shake out just fine," Alex says. He stacks the books on the desk to be scanned and assigned a library and then pushes himself up off the desk chair, after which he all but collapses onto the couch with John. "You have me and I have you and between the two of us, we probably know everything."

"You're so fucking full of yourself," John says, shoving Alex half-heartedly.

"Full of myself and full of you," Alex confirms, then pauses and grins wickedly. "Though I could be _more_ full of you...."

John groans. "That is ten times worse than any of the shitty lines you make fun of me for!"

"That was _brilliant_ and well-timed," Alex insists, and John kisses him to shut him up. The kissing would probably have escalated if it wasn't interrupted by a knock on the door. John pulls himself away and looks up through the tiny window in the door. Molly and Ponter are both outside the office, smirking. John elbows Alex off of him and sits up, motioning for them to come in.

"Hope we're not interrupting," Ponter says.

"We're always interrupting when it comes to Laurens and Ham," Molly says. "I don't know how they get anything done with their tongues constantly in each other's mouths."

"We're very talented," Alex says. "What do you want?"

"Do you have plans for the fourth?" Ponter asks. "Steubs usually has a thing at his place in the afternoon and then we go to the fireworks in Parsippany."

"He called this morning with marching orders for the day and sandwiched between cleaning the chem bench and auditing the textbooks was to invite you guys to come," Molly says.

John turns to Alex and lifts an eyebrow and a shoulder. Alex shrugs back.

"What day is that?" Alex asks. "We've like...totally lost track of time."

"Saturday," Molly says.

"And today is...?" John asks.

"Thursday," Ponter says.

"What kind of thing is it?" John asks. "Like, a sex party thing or a cook-out thing?"

"Closer to a cook-out," Ponter says. "No promises that there won't be people having sex, though."

"He wants to know if he can bring the dogs," Alex says dryly.

"Dogs?" Ponter asks.

"They're dog-sitting for the Washingtons," Molly says.

Ponter shrugs. "I don't see why not. I'll text him and make sure, though."

"Will I see you guys at the Frog tonight?" Molly asks.

"Maybe," John says. "Depends on how much we get done and what Herc's up to."

"Text me and let me know," Molly says. 

"We'll leave you to your important work," Ponter says.

"Damn right it's important," Alex says, and Ponter and Molly laugh as they pull the door closed behind them. "Do you people have cook-outs for everything?"

"In the summer, yeah," John says.

"Weird," Alex says. "It's gonna be hot as fuck, why would you subject yourself to that _plus_ a hot grill?"

"Tradition?" John says. "I don't know. It's what we do."

"Weird," Alex says again.

" _You're_ weird," John says.

"Your face is weird."

"Suck a dick, you love my face."

"I can very easily be talked into sucking a dick right now," Alex says, and knocks John back onto the sofa.

"We have work to do," John says, but it's a token protest. They've already cataloged all but two of the boxes and they have two months to finish, still. The door is closed, they don't have anything else to do today, and Alex is smiling at him like John's the best thing he's ever seen. They can finish their work later.

* * *

It turns out that von Steuben has no problem with John bringing Washington's dogs to his cook-out, though his opinion might change now that they're in his backyard and soaking up a hefty portion of Ben's attention. He and Alex share a series of commiserating looks across the picnic table as John and Ben play fetch and tug-of-war with Nelson and Blue.

"I miss my dog," Ben says, breathless, when he and John join Steubs, Alex, and Molly at the table. 

"I miss pictures of your dog on Twitter," John says. 

"It might be nice to have a dog around the house," von Steuben says with the subtlety of a Mack truck. Ben beams and Alex stabs his finger in the air towards John.

"Don't get any big ideas, Laurens. We just signed a lease that said no pets."

"You're the worst boyfriend," John says. He leans over to pet Nelson, who's asleep at his feet. "At least I have the best dog to play with right across town, right, buddy?"

"That _baby voice_ ," Alex groans.

"If you can't have one yourself, doggy siblings are the next best thing," Molly says. "Wait, siblings? Step-siblings? How would you classify your relationship to the dogs?"

"Not in any way that implies that the Washingtons are _our parents_ ," Alex says. His voice jumps an octave in his horror.

"Oh, please, Washington is totally your dad."

"He is not!"

"He's definitely Lafayette's dad."

"Yeah, Lafayette is 100% GWash's kid and we all know it," Alex says. "He does holidays with them and everything. But we are totally not that at all."

"Well, you're super close to Lafayette, so...."

"Yeah, like his best friends, not like his brothers."

"Yeah, but you're close enough for fake family, like how my bestie's kids call me Aunt Molly. Fur cousins?"

"Does it matter?" John asks. He feeds Nelson a piece of chicken from the pile of dirty plates on the table. "You're putting a weird amount of effort into this. Isn't she buddy? What a good boy."

"He's right," Alex says. "At the end of the day it doesn't matter because he's gonna marry that fucking dog anyway, and then we'll have to start from scratch."

"Oh, shut up. The only person I'm gonna marry is you, probably in Vegas and probably just to get free drinks or some tacky shit like that." John doesn't look up from the dog, so he hopes that no one can see how flushed his cheeks are at the nervous thrill of saying those words aloud so casually, even if it was as a joke.

"Oh, no way," Alex says, wrapping his arms around John's waist and draping himself over him. "Our wedding is gonna be fucking beautiful and everyone we know is gonna be there because I know this is the only time I'm ever gonna get you to talk about your feelings in public."

"Fuck off, Hamilton," John says, but the shove he gives Alex isn't nearly strong enough to nudge him away, and he knows everyone at the table can see the way he relaxes into the embrace.

"Boys, boys," Molly says. "Save that for the bedroom. If we want good parking spots for the fireworks, you should go drop off the dogs so we can get over there."

"Saved by the bell," Alex says, backing off so that John can stand up from the picnic table.

"That doesn't even make any sense," John says, though he can't pretend he doesn't feel a little better with the wedding talk postponed, facetious as it may have been. "Get your shit and let's get in the car."

"We'll meet you guys at the Washingtons and head over from there," Ponter says. "You can follow us to the secret parking area."

"Why do I feel like we're going to be serial killed?" Alex asks, but John gives him another shove, this time towards his discarded bag, and goes to round up the dogs so they can get going.

*

Alex is only half wrong. By "secret parking area," what Ponter meant was "back road next to the woods near a path to the school." He instructs John to park on the street and then leads the way directly into the trees. If there weren't clusters of families doing the same thing, John would begrudgingly admit to Alex that, yes, Ponter brought them here to serial kill them.

The path through the woods is, if not well-worn, at least distinguishable even though the tree cover is blocking out the fading July light. They can hear the roar of a crowd and the sound of a band playing patriotic standards not too far in front of them, and then they're through the treeline and standing at the edge of the high school's sports field. There are families camped out everywhere on blankets and lawn chairs, vendors pushing carts of glow necklaces, and trailers near the fence selling popcorn and cotton candy and funnel cake. 

They pause to take it all in for a moment, overwhelmed by the scene until Ponter once again takes charge and begins to lead the way to a suitable viewing place. Steubs is right there with him, chattering in a mix of English and German, with Ben trailing behind them. He, Alex, and Molly follow at a more leisurely pace, weaving in and out of the families that have already spread their blankets and cracked open their coolers.

"There's something so typical and fitting about America celebrating how great it thinks it is with explosions," Alex says.

"What've you got against fireworks?" Molly asks. "Or America?"

"Christ, don't get him started," John says. He gives Alex a good natured shove.

"As an immigrant to this country, I obviously appreciate it enough to make it my home, but I have some well-earned criticisms," Alex says. He hip-checks John, but John was waiting for it. He doesn't move at all, which sends Alex bouncing off of him and stumbling on his feet instead. John grabs his wrist when it looks like he's going to take a header, pulling him back up. Alex overcompensates, and they end up pressed together, with Alex clutching John's shoulder as he gets his feet back underneath him.

"Asshole," he mutters.

"I'm the love of your life, Hamilton."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive."

Molly is unimpressed. "Are you two always 900% extra, or is that a show put on for my benefit?"

"We're pretty much always like this," John confirms. He should probably be embarrassed, but he can't be bothered. It's just Molly.

Eventually, Steubs settles on a spot and they lay down blankets and open chairs. Molly flops onto her stomach and John has barely sat down and crossed his legs before Alex all but climbs into his lap.

"It's like a million degrees out," he half-protests, and Alex just hands him a lemonade from the cooler in response.

"So, Ham, why don't you like fireworks?" Molly asks. She resettles, sitting up and tucking her legs underneath her. "The Laurens and Hamilton Variety Hour interrupted you before and I'm curious."

"It's not fireworks as a _concept_." Alex fidgets and stretches until he's leaning comfortably back against John with his skinny, knobby chicken legs stretched out in front of them. Yet another thing about Alex that's objectively unattractive but embarrassingly dear to John. "It's this whole sense of self-celebration. Patriotism is one thing, but so many people take it so far, and to have a whole day off full of celebrations and military displays and ostentatious explosions in the sky...it's a little too culty for my liking. A little too close to declaring anyone who shits on the holiday Unamerican or whatever."

Molly snorts. "You have a point, but jesus, you're a pretentious fuck."

"Take me as I am, baby," Alex says.

"No thank you," Molly says.

"Speaking of...." Molly and Alex both look at John in confusion, so he elaborates. "Speaking of people who you're having sex with that aren't Alex."

"That's a hell of a transition, Laurens," Molly says.

"Yeah, I love you, baby, but if I can't even follow it, it needs work."

"Fuck off, both of you." John waves dismissively at them. "Maggie. Where's Maggie tonight?"

"Oh." Molly's attention is suddenly glued to the can of ginger ale she's holding. "Bar's not closed, so she had to work." She looks back up at John and adds, firmly, "Nothing happened, everything is the same as it's been, I don't want to talk about it."

"Great," John says. "I'm excellent at not talking." There's an awkward moment of silence and then he adds, "Unless you want to talk about it ever. Then, like...you can talk to me."

"You sound so enthusiastic about the prospect," Molly mutters. 

"Nah, he's actually pretty good at talking about _other people's_ feelings," Alex says.

"Well, I don't want to talk about it anyway, so it doesn't matter," Molly says. "What I want is a beer. Give me a beer, Ham."

Alex obliges, shoving a can of something locally brewed that John doesn't recognize into a koozie and handing it off, then doing it again for himself. 

"The one benefit of putting my life in my hands and making you drive me around," Molly says. "Drinking as much as I want."

"Hey, I'm a good driver!" John insists. He's not unaware of his many flaws, but he takes obsessive, scrupulous care of his car. He's boned without a car, doubly boned given his role as Alex's chauffeur, and car repairs are expensive. He's also just uncomfortable without the freedom to get around at his own pace. He's not a big fan of giving up that kind of control, which is very obviously pathological, but whatever.

"Yeah, okay, you are," Molly concedes. "I just hate being a passenger. I'm a control freak like that."

John holds his hand up for a high-five. "I was literally just thinking the same thing." 

"You're both weird," Alex, who doesn't even have a fucking driver's license, says.

The stretch before full dark as they wait for the fireworks display continues with more-or-less that social delineation--Molly hangs out on the blanket with John and Alex, while Ponter, Ponce, Ben, and Steubs sit in lawn chairs. At one point, von Steuben disappears and reappears with Italian ices for everyone, which gives John some vaguely uncomfortable dad-vibes. Spending so much time hanging out with von Steuben as if he's just one of the guys is low-key weird enough, but having a sugar daddy has never been particularly attractive to John.

Alex, reading his mind, murmurs in his ear, "Okay, now I know way more about Ben's kinks than I ever needed to."

The sun sets and the crowd grows and the band plays and then, as Molly is giving John the elevator pitch on why he should read her favorite comic, a lone 'pop!' sounds out on the other side of the field, followed by a trail of smoke in the sky that ends in a single bright explosion. 

"A test run," Molly murmurs, but a hush starts to fall over the crowd. The band is quiet for a moment, and then, simultaneously, there's a rush of soft popping and the band kicks up with "America, the Beautiful."

John spent the last few Fourth of Julys watching the Pops and the fireworks at the Esplanade from the roof of a frat brother's Back Bay apartment. They were incredible and impressive, and the scale was much larger than this display behind a high school in the suburbs, but he's still overcome with a sense of awe and wonder. With everything that came after the last Fourth of July he spent at home, he should hate the holiday, but it's somehow stayed wholly separate, something far outside of that mess. He's never quite sure how to quantify his feelings about America, having one foot in the immense hereditary privilege of its white founders and one in the struggle of being queer and brown, but the celebratory artistry of a good fireworks display pushes all of that to the back of his mind. It's not about America so much as it's about being here, alive, with people he likes, seeing this fleeting show of beauty and power.

He's too close to Alex to properly see his face, but he can feel his heartbeat and his breathing. He's still in John's lap, completely focused on the sky in a way he so rarely is. John tightens his embrace, his chest pressing tight to Alex's back when he inhales. There's a lump in his throat, inexplicably, as he hugs Alex hard and lets the fireworks clear his mind and hold his focus, all the way through the brilliant and explosive finale, the sky hazy with smoky after-images of the stars and spirals and bursts that blinded them only moments previous. The sound of the explosions drowns out even the band in those last moments as rocket after rocket shoots up and bursts into a rain of colorful light. The acrid smell of gunpowder surrounds them as the fireworks reach a fever pitch and then, just as suddenly, stop.

The crowd applauds and cheers, but John stays still and quiet until Alex finally shifts on his lap. He covers John's hands, tight around his waist, with his own and squeezes them wordlessly. Alex is wordless so rarely that this fireworks show immediately blows past those years of watching the Pops on a cushy rooftop to claim the space of the best show he's ever experienced.

Next to them, Molly stretches and sits up, crossing her legs.

"That was pretty awesome," she says. "I don't know what it is about fireworks that I love so much."

"They're a combination of chemistry, physics, and pandemonium," Alex says wryly. "Isn't that the center of the Molly Ludwig venn diagram?"

"Something like that," Molly agrees, grinning at them.

"Hey, we're gonna stop and get ice cream on the way back home," Ponter says from behind them. "You guys wanna come?"

"I'm always up for ice cream," Molly says. Ponter climbs around them and over the cooler to offer Molly a hand, pulling her to her feet. "Boys?"

Alex tips his head back to look at John, half upside down. John knows that look--soft and warm and pleased--and reads Alex's suggestion in the quirk of his lips.

"Nah," John says, looking up at Molly. "Unless you need a ride...?"

He knows she doesn't need a ride.

"Plenty of room in my car," Ponter says. "See you guys around?"

"Definitely," John says, and Alex hums in agreement, glancing absently up at them as Molly grabs the cooler and they join the crowd moving en masse back towards the parking lot and paths back to the cars. Once they're out of sight, absorbed into the crowd, Alex settles back against John's chest and sighs.

"This holiday is ridiculous and over the top and generally laughable," Alex says.

"But...."

"...but I also totally get it after watching something like that," Alex admits.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Alex says. "Sometimes America doesn't suck."

John grins against his temple. Alex smells a little like beer and a little like lemon and a little like gunpowder. If he kisses him, he knows he'll taste like lemon ice, and suddenly there's nothing John wants more in the world than to have that flavor under his lips. Either his movement telegraphs his intentions or Alex just has the same idea, because before he can shift enough to fully kiss Alex on the mouth, Alex's mouth has met him halfway.

He does taste like lemon ice, sugary and sticky and a little tart. John closes his eyes and sighs into Alex's mouth, while Alex twists around until he's sitting up and straddling John's lap. On his knees like that, he has even more height on John than he normally does. He takes John's face between his hands and tilts it upwards, staring down at him thoughtfully for a moment. John's skin prickles in anticipation.

Alex leans down and kisses John once, long and hard and searing, and then stumbles to his feet. He grabs John's hands and pulls him up after, and John barely has time to grab his bag and the blanket before Alex is dragging him away.

They dart in between families getting their bags together and teenagers laughing and meandering out of the field. There's a steady stream of foot traffic blocking the steps down to the parking lot and a few lines of people making their way down obvious paths in the woods on the other side, the way that they came in earlier. Alex doesn't tug him onto one of those lines--he pulls John behind the tree line, but instead of connecting with one of the worn paths through the woods back to where they parked the car, he leads John farther away from everyone else, back where it's darker and quiet, the sound of the band muffled and the chatter of exiting fireworks attendees far off. John can still see the lights from the school behind them and the lights from the houses that hug the treeline on the other side twinkle in the distance. Alex looks around and then, satisfied that they're alone, presses John back against a tree and kisses him.

John leans back against the tree and pulls Alex towards him. He licks along Alex's lower lip and then bites gently until he opens his mouth. Alex presses against him and slips a leg between his thighs, which John is happy to grind down against as Alex sucks on his tongue and bites at his mouth. John's hands are pinned against Alex's chest, but Alex's are exploring. Or maybe exploring is too gentle--they're pretty intent on their destination, which is under John's shirt. One hand sneaks around his back to slip below his waistline to grab his ass and jerk him closer and all the air leaves John's lungs in a gasp.

"Shouldn't we be moving this back to the car?" John asks, his head tipped back against the tree as Alex kisses his throat.

"Car's far away," Alex murmurs. "Plus, you won't let us have sex in it for some dumb reason."

"Because I have standards," John says, but it comes out quick and breathy when Alex tugs him forward again, then moves his hands towards John's fly.

"Yeah," Alex says, "incredibly low ones. But if we can't have sex in the car, here's good."

He opens the button of John's fly and pushes the zipper down, then shoves his hand down the front of John's pants and boxers. It's not exactly the most romantic gesture, but John's body is on board--he automatically arches his back and presses himself further into Alex's grip. Alex pulls away far enough to smirk at him, that asshole.

"We're really gonna--ah--really gonna have sex in the woods behind the high school?" John pants, but even as he says it, he's unbuttoning Alex's shorts and pulling him closer so they're both pressed back against the tree. The bark scratches against John's back where Alex has pushed his shirt up, but he hardly notices.

"Yeah," Alex says. He grips John's cock and strokes it twice in quick succession. John has to squeeze Alex's hips, his fingers digging into his skin, to keep from groaning out loud.

"There are _families_ here," John says. It's the weakest, token-est of protests--he's got a hand around Alex's dick, now, and isn't about to suggest they both march through the woods with very uncomfortable boners and wait until they get back to their place to finish this.

"We're providing sex ed," Alex says. "Those kids gotta get it from somewhere." Alex's face is pressed into the crook of his neck, his breath hot and wet against John's throat, his lips just shy of touching skin. It's driving John a little crazy, making it hard to concentrate.

"I don't think they need instruction on this part," he manages to say in a daze, squeezing Alex's cock. He smirks when Alex shudders above him. "I think anyone with a dick figures this part out pretty quickly once puberty starts."

Alex makes a noise between a laugh and a gasp and then somewhere off to John's left there's a noise in the bushes. They both freeze, hands down each other's pants. John holds his breath, though Alex doesn't hold his--it's blowing soft and warm against John's neck and not really making it very easy to stay still and quiet. He shifts, his foot quietly snapping a branch as he moves it.

"Sssssh," Alex whispers against his throat. He starts stroking John's dick again. "Quiet. I know that's hard for you."

"Hard for _me_?" John whispers loudly, which maybe proves Alex's point _this second_ , but the point still stands that Alex is more regularly the person who talks them into trouble.

"Well, I'm gonna have a dick in my mouth in a second," Alex whispers, then nips his throat and sinks down to his knees.

John sinks his hands into Alex's hair and leans his head back against the tree, closing his eyes. It's too dark to see what Alex is doing with any clarity, so he'd rather let his imagination take over, superimpose the memory of all the other times Alex has been on his knees for him over the dark blur down there now. He squeezes his hands in Alex's hair as Alex eases his pants and boxers just slightly further down his thighs in order to free his cock.

"Careful," Alex murmurs. "Hair is your thing, not mine."

John gives Alex's hair a gentle tug and notes the way his breath catches in his throat. "Are you trying to tell me you're not into it?"

"I'm trying to tell you to be careful and don't rip a chunk of my hair out like last time," Alex says breathlessly.

"It was not a _chunk_ , you _baby_ ," John says. It was _maybe_ two or three strands, and they may have just fallen out in the course of their rough-housing anyway. If anything, it was Alex's fault for doing something weird with his tongue unexpectedly while John had a hold on his hair.

"It was too a chunk!" Alex hisses, and before John can tell him to shut his mouth (preferably by putting a dick in it), there's a rush of laughter and rustling of leaves off to their left again. John thinks it's pretty far off--far enough that whoever it is won't be able to see them--but he snaps his mouth shut and freezes. Alex does too.

Seconds tick past and the laughter and rustling get farther away. Alex lifts his head and leans back, a shaft of low, muddy light falling on his face. He meets John's eyes and raises a finger to his lips, then leans over and puts his mouth on John's cock.

John doesn't consider himself particularly vocal in bed. He and Alex have their whole...thing...but that's a whole different animal, a back-and-forth routine that they can put away when they need to, when they're feeling tender and sincere or when they're fucking somewhere they shouldn't be fucking and need to be stealthy. He can keep his mouth shut, generally, and swallow back any noises that want to slip out. And, hell, sometimes that's hotter than shouting. Sometimes hearing nothing but panted breaths and choked silence is ten times sexier than the dirtiest of dirty talk.

The point is, it shouldn't be hard to keep his mouth shut for this, but he has to sink his teeth hard into his bottom lip to keep from crying out. It's nothing new--Alex is employing every one of his array of techniques to finish John as quickly and efficiently as possible. He's dragging his tongue around the head of John's cock, sloppily pumping the shaft he doesn't have in his mouth, squeezing in just the right place, in just the right rhythm. He glides his teeth gently against John's skin without biting and sucks and swallows all in the same way he normally does, but John has to let go of Alex's hair with one hand to shove it into his mouth to keep from gasping out loud. Something about the way Alex's nails are digging into him, the vigor with which he's moving, the anticipation that John saw in his eyes when he shushed him...it's just different enough, just intense enough that John's heart is racing out of control. It's like Alex is still holding his gaze, staring at him as he works, making it so clear how much he's enjoying having John's dick down his throat. It's too dark for John to see Alex's face, now, but that's what it feels like, that's what he's seeing in his mind's eye--Alex's hungry, dark eyes, begging for more, like he might not be able to go on if John doesn't come down his throat immediately, like something is spurring him on, getting him as close as his mouth is getting John.

John yanks on Alex's hair, which he doesn't mean to do, but it jerks his head forward and he chokes on John's dick for just a second before John lets go, but he doesn't pull away--he goes right back to sucking, right back to shoving John's cock into his mouth as if even that split second break is too long away.

John can hear his own breath as he comes, loud and short in the silence of the woods, louder, it seems, than the blood rushing past his ears. He leans back against the tree as Alex keeps sucking him dry and he's so sensitive that it hurts, but he _wants it_ , he can't stop it until Alex pulls off and immediately gets to his feet.

"You're so fucking hot," he whispers right into John's ear, panting. John opens his eyes enough to see Alex's arm move, feel it jostling him as Alex presses close, jerking himself off. "Your fucking face, the way you tried so hard to be quiet, god." He chokes on a moan, trying to swallow it, but he's pressed so close John can feel the vibration anyway. He regains enough composure to let go of Alex's hair and shove his hand down his pants, covering Alex's hand with his own.

"Are you getting off on this?" he murmurs, putting some pieces together one after another now that the euphoria of his orgasm has cleared his mind. "The idea that anyone could be watching--that we're right here, not fifty feet away from all of those families?"

Alex swallows another noise, his strokes becoming swift and uneven and sloppy. John tightens his grip on Alex's hand and gets them back into a rhythm. It's less like Alex is jerking himself off and more like John is jerking him off with Alex's own hand.

"You are," John says softly. "You want someone to be seeing this. Watching you suck me off, watching your face when you come all over my hand, touching themselves while they look at your mouth on my cock--"

Alex bites John's shoulder hard over his shirt as he comes, pressing tightly against John and hissing as his body shakes in John's arms.

They stand there, leaning against the tree, until they both get their breath back. Alex straightens up slowly. In that same beam of light from before, John can see his chest still rising and falling rapidly. His eyes seem huge and dark in the low light, his mouth messy and soft from being wrapped around John's dick. He blinks rapidly, then stares down at his hand, smeared with come.

"Fuck," he mumbles, then wipes it on the trunk of the tree. He wipes his hand a few more times for good measure before he looks back up at John.

"You're gross," John whispers, but he's absolutely certain he looks just as fucked out as Alex looks and sounds even less intimidating.

"Yeah, well," Alex says, and grins. He rebuttons his pants and John does the same, trying to shake his head in disbelief. He's smiling too big for it to have much effect.

"You really have a thing for exhibitionism, huh?" John says. He leans down to grab the strap of his bag and the edge of the filthy blanket. When he straightens up, he presses a quick kiss to Alex's mouth. "Like, that really sucked you in at the end there."

Alex looks thoughtful. He takes John's hand as they quickly start to pick their way back towards the path.

"Yeah, a little," he says. "Low-key, like."

"Mmhm," John says. "Low-key, sure."

"Don't even start with me," Alex warns. "Not after all the times I've held your wrists down and watched you almost come from the struggle alone."

John flushes a little, but he's sure it's impossible to see in the dark. And it's not like he can deny it--sure, before Alex he was sort of absently into that kind of very light restraint, but since meeting Alex he can't deny it's a huge kink. He's positive there's a lot of weird psychological stuff at work there, things about control and trust and the depth to which he loves Alex, but he'd much rather experiment with it than think too hard about what it all means.

"I'm not denying that," John says to Alex. "I'm just saying--when I brought it up at Stuebs' party back in May you were pretty vague about it, but I've got a handful of data points now and I'm pretty sure you like the idea of someone watching."

"Yeah, well," Alex says. "I'm a fucking egomaniac, does that really surprise you?"

"Not when you put it like that," John says, and Alex laughs.

The steady stream of people heading back through the woods to their cars has slowed to a trickle, but they manage to find it again eventually and pick through the trees until they're out on the street on the other side. Alex swings their hands as they wander down the sidewalk to John's car, looking flushed and pleased with himself in the streetlights. 

"Don't be so smug," John says, elbowing him a little as they walk.

"I've got a lot to be smug about," Alex says. "I'm brilliant, moderately good looking, well-respected in my field, I have a hot boyfriend...."

John laughs. His cheeks are flushed and it's maybe from the compliment or maybe from the afterglow--it's hard to tell. He's sure this euphoria is just the endorphin rush, but he feels like he could do anything just now.

"Do you want to go get ice cream?" he asks. "We can probably catch up the others."

"Sure," Alex says. "Wait, do we look fucked out?"

John shrugs. "Who cares? I want soft-serve."

"Ugh, soft-serve," Alex says, making a face.

"There's nothing wrong with soft-serve!" John insists. "And you're gonna eat half of mine anyway, so I don't know why you're complaining."

"That's precisely why I'm complaining," Alex says. "I wish you'd get something better so that when I inevitably steal half of it when you're not looking, it's more satisfying."

"You're a shithead," John says.

"Get used to it, baby, cause you're stuck with me," Alex says.

Buoyed by joy or love or peace or maybe the aforementioned endorphins, John abruptly crowds Alex up against the side of his car and kisses him, cradling his jaw and falling into the kiss, anchored to reality by Alex's fingers twisting into his t-shirt as the hubbub around them fades away. He smiles when he breaks the kiss, barely moving away at all. Their noses brush together and Alex grins at him, then steals another kiss.

"What was that for?" Alex asks.

"I don't know," John admits. "I was just...happy."

"Me too," Alex says, and John leans in for another kiss. They're already late for ice cream--a few more minutes won't matter, and this is so much more important.


	9. Part One: VIII. all that i've done wrong comes back to me in song tenfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of living outside time for a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H'OKAY. So, this is the last chapter in 2017. I'll be back in (hopefully) mid-January with part two. I promise I will keep you updated via tumblr.
> 
> Happy Holidays, my friends. Thank you for being a source of light in 2017, and I hope I was able to bring a little joy into your lives with these dumb stories.
> 
> (I am specifically putting that part of the note before this chapter.)
> 
> Chapter title via "Tenfold" by Prairie Empire

They're used to the upstairs circus by this point, but that doesn't make living with it any easier, something made clear Sunday night when Alex slams his laptop shut hard enough that John winces, then jumps to his feet and glares at the ceiling.

"I cannot _concentrate_ ," Alex seethes. He's so over-the-top pissed that it's almost cute. "I have to get this fucking essay edited and we've still gotta watch that documentary I got yesterday and I'm gonna do a murder if I don't have five minutes quiet to fucking _think_." 

John gets up and rubs Alex's shoulder. He's actually angry, twitchy and seething with it. John's not much happier to have to live through the noise from their neighbors, but Alex looks like he really is going to do a murder.

"We have to get ear plugs," John says. There's a particularly loud thump from upstairs and he adds, "Good ones."

"That doesn't help me now," Alex says. "Murder will help me now." He starts to walk towards the door, but John takes his shoulders and redirects him towards the table.

"Murder will get you stuck in prison for our conference workshop," he says. "Let's get out of here. We can go to the lab. Or--" The thought occurs to John suddenly, and just as quickly as he thinks it's a great idea, he starts to regret it.

Alex looks at him, eyebrows raised. "...'or,'" he prompts.

"Nothing," John says. "I was going to say, 'Or we could go to the Washingtons' place,' but then I thought about it for a second and that would feel...weird. Wouldn't it feel weird?"

"Why would it feel weird?" Alex asks. "It'll be quiet. And the a/c is probably better."

John arches one eyebrow. "You really don't think it would be weird to have sex in our boss' house?"

Alex opens his mouth and then snaps it shut after a second. "You're right," he says. "It would be really fucking weird."

"We'll go to the lab tonight, okay?" John says. "We're already used to the couch there and you can finish your article in silence."

Alex sighs, the frustration once again rising to the forefront of his expression. "That's just treating the symptom."

"Yeah, well, we've already bitched to Eddie about it ten times and we don't have a ton of other legal recourse," John says. "We'll figure something out. But for the immediate future...."

"To the school, yeah yeah," Alex mutters.

John throws some stuff in his bag, then goes into his closet, pulls out a backpack, and makes a more permanent supply pack for the lab. He has a feeling this is going to become a recurring solution. By the time he's done, Alex is pacing by the door, three seconds away from committing that aforementioned murder, so John hustles him out, pausing only for a moment to revel in the silence of the hallway before heading down to his car.

The lab is deserted, which isn't surprising, given the hour. Alex marches right over to his desk and pulls out his laptop, slamming it down just shy of too hard--hard enough to be properly dramatic, but not so hard as to actually break it. He flips it open and immediately picks up where he left off, fingers flying across the keys. John rolls his eyes with the utmost fondness and wanders around the lab at a more sedate pace, stowing his bags and equipment, putting on the coffeemaker, and finally curling up on the couch with his tablet to read some comics while Alex works. The angry clatter of Alex's keyboard is soothing after almost a year of living in each other's pockets, like his own personal white noise machine. 

A little too soothing, maybe. John wakes up some time later to a darkened lab, the grey glow of very early morning sneaking in between the blinds. Alex is gently shifting him around on the couch.

"Go back to sleep, babe," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to wake you." 

He climbs in behind John, wrapping his arms around his chest. John wants to rebuke him for the hour or maybe tell him it's fine, he didn't mean to nod off anyway, but he's asleep again in an instant.

*

John expected last night that Burr would wake them up when he came in for the morning, or maybe their internal clocks would take over. He's surprised, then, to blink awake as Alex tries to extricate himself from the couch very slowly and carefully. Somehow, he immediately knows that it's late. Much later than they normally sleep.

"You can keep sleeping," Alex tells him, still hushed, but it's late enough that John actually feels like maybe he's slept enough. The lights in the lab are still off, but sun is streaming in from behind the blinds. John grapples for his phone and frowns at the display. It's almost eleven am.

"Holy shit," he says. "We could barely get that much uninterrupted quiet at our old place, let alone on the fucking lab couch. Where is everyone?"

"No idea." Alex is back to speaking at full volume and moving at full speed. "Goddamn, I can't remember the last time I slept for that long."

"Same, honestly," John says, although that's not entirely true. John has a very clear memory of the last time he spent this long in bed, but it's not a memory he'd like to bring up right now. Sometimes he likes to think about his depressed self as a different person than the person he is every day. He's knows that's not nearly true, but it makes him feel better when he's happy, to distance himself from the person who can't get out of bed, the person who just wants to scream until his throat is too raw to keep going.

"Hey," Alex murmurs, "you okay?"

John blinks rapidly and looks at Alex, who's beside him now, touching his shoulder. "What?"

"You went away for a second there," Alex says.

"Sorry, distracted," John says, shaking his head clear. "Anyway, is there food here or do we want to hit the coffee shop or drive out to the diner?"

"Cheetos, Burr's pudding cups, gummy bears, some freezer burned hot pockets...."

"So that's a no on food here?"

"I want to go to the diner," Alex says. "I want eggs. And french fries."

"You're so weird," John says, as if he hasn't ordered weirder combinations at the diner. "Let me put on clothes I haven't had sex in."

"Needy," Alex says, but he busses John on the cheek and then grabs his bag and heads to Washington's office to change.

*

The whole day becomes a dream-like, liminal experience. John is never quite sure what time it is, and his brain never agrees with his phone when he does check in. They feed the dogs, have breakfast that's more like lunch, and then go back to the lab, where they work until well after Burr and Lee leave for the night, with only a quick break to give the dogs their dinner. It's dark when they decide that cheetos and gummy bears are not a sufficient dinner, and Alex sweet talks the pizza place into delivering even though they don't call until three minutes after the delivery cut-off. The pizza drives them into a food coma, so they take a little nap on the sofa while John runs the centrifuge with some samples from a case they had earlier that month. 

Of course, the nap means that they're not quite ready to sleep until the sun is already starting to rise. It's going to be another day of a faulty internal clock, but John's too tired to dwell on that for too long once they lock themselves in Washington's office with the shades drawn in order to catch some sleep before everyone comes in for the day.

And that's how, after another blurred day of work and dogs and reading and meals at strange times and naps under the desk, they've ended up here, drunk and giggling at eight pm on the back steps of the parapsych wing, banished after Burr told them, exasperated, that he couldn't concentrate with their laughter and excessive PDA.

"Maybe...." Alex trails off and John bursts out in another fit of giggles.

"What?" he asks.

"Um...." Then Alex starts laughing again too. "Oh! Eat! Maybe we should have, like...ate food. Eaten food? I can't remember...participles."

John snort laughs and throws his arms around Alex, which just makes Alex laugh more.

It's possible Alex is right. Which makes John laugh harder.

"Oh my god, oh my god," Alex says. "John. John. Angel. Baby. Gumdrop."

John pushes Alex's hair behind his ears and does his best to make his face look serious. "Yes?"

"I...like you," Alex says gravely.

John laughs again, the tiny hiccuping laughs that shake his whole body.

They are maybe...they are maybe drunk.

" _Papi_ , I don't think there's a person on campus who doesn't know that."

John and Alex both turn to Lieutenant Lincoln, who's standing at the foot of the stairs with her arms crossed. She's somewhere between amused and exasperated, and it makes John start to laugh again, which sets Alex off.

"Yeah," Alex says. "Yeah, yeah, everyone knows. It's not, like...it's not a secret?" He looks at John and nods. "It's not a secret."

"You two've maybe had a couple drinks, huh?" she asks.

"A...couple," John says. He's aiming for evasive, but it's hard to tell how successful he is.

"Yeah, your buddy Lee seems to think you're disturbing the peace. And while I don't think there's much peace to disturb at nearly nine on a summer weeknight, you're definitely soused, so I've gotta take you in until you dry out."

John feels like they should protest, but it's just easier to stand up when Lincoln comes over and nudges his elbow. He and Alex sway on their feet and then start to follow her down the path, clinging to each other.

"Lieutenant," Alex says. "Lieutenant. Lieutenant."

"Hamilton," Lincoln says.

"There's this guy--oh my god, Lieutenant, there's this guy. He's...he's so dumb. He published this paper--Lieutenant, he's so dumb."

"He's very dumb," John agrees. He tries to nod in emphasis, but the world buckles and sways around him and he has to clutch Alex's arm hard to stay upright.

"I'll bet he is," Lincoln says. "Doesn't know a lot about ghosts, huh?"

"He thinks he does," Alex says, "but he _doesn't_."

"I'd fight him," John agrees.

"Y'all are a riot, you know that?" 

They both start giggling again, and can't stop until they're stumbling into the campus police office. The fluorescent lights make John squint and bury his head in Alex's shoulder, but that just makes Alex stumble into the wall. Lincoln has to herd them back into the holding room that holds two cots and two chairs. It's not an unfamiliar setting--it's possible that this isn't the first time that Lieutenant Lincoln has had to dry them out overnight.

"Car keys, boys," she says, holding out her hands once they're collapsed onto one of the cots.

"Sure sure sure," John murmurs. He can't be bothered to find his keys in his bag, so he just thrusts the whole thing at her and lets her take it with her. She disappears out of the doorway and then reappears with a handful of water bottles which she leaves on one of the chairs.

"Hydrate, kids," she says. "I don't want to deal with your--" She veers into Spanish and John blinks at her, even as Alex giggles again.

"Aye-aye, Lieutenant," he says. "We will be...hydrated."

"Get some sleep," she says, and then hits the lights and leaves them to their own devices.

It's quiet for a few moments and then they both crack up again.

"What time is it?" Alex asks. "Is it like...is it sleeping time?"

"I don't know," John says. "She took my...um...phone."

Alex laughs so hard he chokes. "Did you...did you forget how to say 'phone'?"

John shoves him. "Shut up."

Alex shoves him back. "You shut up."

And then John shoves and then Alex shoves and then John shoves and eventually, they end up collapsed and curled up on the cot.

"I don't think it's time to sleep yet," Alex says, even as John is yawning against his collarbone.

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"Maybe a nap, though."

"Maybe a nap," John agrees. They're twisted together and it's not exactly _comfortable_ , but John is heavy and warm and fuzzy from too much whiskey and it's _so quiet_ , so he's fairly content to hold onto Alex and close his eyes.

"I do, though."

John doesn't bother to open his eyes at the non sequitur. "Do what?"

"Like you," Alex says.

John grins so hard his face hurts. "I like you too, Hamilton."

*

Rapidly blinking lights and a blast of salsa music wake John up several hours later. He groans and tries to cover his ears, but he's too tangled up in someone else--Alex, probably--to manage. The person on top of him--definitely Alex, now that John has blinked his eyes open, even for just a moment--groans even more loudly.

"Up, boys," Lieutenant Lincoln calls from the doorway and, oh right, they slept in the holding room last night. "My shift's almost over and I like the next person too much to strand them with your hungover asses."

"Ugh," Alex groans. He hits John in the face when he tries to cover his own eyes with his hands, and that annoys John enough to push him away and force himself to sit up.

The night comes back to him in fits and starts. Their weird day outside of time, the meal schedule that was off enough that they were at the bar during happy hour, taking advantage of half-price drinks, taking a Lyft back to the school to try and get some work done, mocking the author of a paper up for review, getting kicked out of the lab by Burr and Lee, and then getting picked up by Lincoln and shoved into the holding room. He's honestly surprised that Alex slept so many consecutive hours, but their schedule has definitely been off-kilter lately and he doesn't blame Alex's body for being confused.

"Up, up, up," Lincoln repeats.

"We're moving," John mumbles. He stretches and yawns and gets to his feet, offering Alex a hand up as they move slowly around the room collecting their shoes and belts.

Out in the hall, Lincoln hands John his bag as she shoos them out of the office. "Go home!" she calls after them, and they mumble a vague agreement, stumbling out into the bright sunlight.

"What time is it?" Alex asks. He's still rubbing his eyes; he hates sleeping in his contacts.

John pulls his phone out of his bag, but realizes after jabbing the home button several times that the battery must have died overnight. "No clue."

Alex grumbles something that John can't hear and then retrieves his own phone. "Fucking--six am, jesus christ, I can't believe that woman...."

"Yeah, well, we slept for like, nine hours, so."

"I guess," Alex says. He keeps rubbing at his eyes, so John stops him with a hand on his shoulder, tugging his hands away from his face.

"You're just gonna make it worse," he reminds Alex, brushing his thumbs back and forth against the back of his hands. "Relax, babe."

Alex's shoulders slump and he leans his weight on John, blinking rapidly. "My eyes hurt," he whines.

"I know," John says. "Let's go back to the lab and you can switch your contacts and we can get some coffee and then read the internet or make out?"

"I bet we can multi-task, even," Alex says.

"Only one way to find out," John says, and he starts towards the lab and then stops abruptly. "Oh, fuck, the dogs. We fed them pretty early last night, we should give them an early breakfast, too."

Alex groans. "Do we have to?"

"Yes!" John insists. "Plus, we have to get my car anyway. We can take a Lyft to the bar, get my car, swing by Starbucks on the way to the Washingtons', feed the dogs, and then come back here."

Alex stares at him blearily. "I can't believe you expect me to do all of that before seven am with a hangover."

"The faster we leave the faster you'll get coffee," John says. He waves his dead phone at Alex. "And you've gotta call the car."

"Paying to drive your ass all over town," Alex grumbles as he swipes open his phone.

"Hey, remember who pays to drive _your_ ass all over town on a fucking daily basis, sweetheart."

"Yeah, yeah."

Alex is much less grumpy by the time they get to the Washingtons', largely due to the ridiculously large coffee and espresso concoction he orders from Starbucks. Still, John tries to be quick--he pets and feeds the dogs and lets them out for a few minutes, but while he normally spends at least a half an hour playing with them in the mornings, today he cuts it short. He's not much less hungover than Alex is and he'd like to get back to the lab, if only because he feels embarrassingly twitchy without his phone.

That doesn't mean he doesn't feel guilty when they slip out of the house with the dogs staring mournfully out the picture window. Maybe they _should_ stay at the Washingtons' overnight the next time Upstairs gets obnoxious. They can probably refrain from doing anything unmentionable in one of the guest beds.

Maybe.

They get back to campus a little before eight. As Alex immediately goes off to rinse out his eyes and change his contacts, John digs in his desk for his phone charger, checking his email on his desktop computer as he does so. He feels a little like a junkie getting a hit as his inbox loads with a dozen new messages. A few things about a photography project he's been working on, some comment responses from Alex's blog and a couple other forums he frequents, a bunch of junk advertising sales and events in the area, but buried in there is an invite to visit Dolley in Philly for the weekend. 

Two things happen in rapid succession: John frowns at the date in the invitation and quickly pulls up his calendar and his phone charges enough to spring back to life, vibrating with several missed calls and two voicemails from his father.

The calendar doesn't even load all the way before he knows. 

Fuck. _Fuck_.

He panics for a moment. He can't call his father back from his desk, not after--not after this--but his phone isn't charged enough yet. He fumbles for the back-up battery in his bag, attaching it to his phone with shaking fingers as he stumbles to his feet. He thinks he might be sick, and he lurches towards Washington's office. He needs to be somewhere with a door. He needs to hide this shame.

Alex wanders back in just as John pushes open the door to Washington's office. Whatever he was going to say dies on his lips when he sees John's face.

"Baby?"

"It's--I had--my dad called." It's all he can manage to say, his face already burning with shame and disgust. "I have to call my dad. I--I have to call him."

He doesn't wait for a response, just closes the door to the office and collapses onto the couch against the wall. His hands are still shaking as he presses the "call" icon on his father's contact.

He knew this summer was too good to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry D:


	10. Part Two: I. though it's not, i'll say it is, i'll say it's alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes one phone call from John's father to send their summer into a tailspin. Alex just wishes John would tell him *why*.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hi. Remember me?
> 
> First off, I would like to DEEPLY APOLOGIZE for how long it's taken me to finish this up. Would you believe that I had all but about 20k words written back in December? Because that is the truth. Of the 90,000 words in this section, over 70,000 were written in 2017, but, you know. Depression is a thing. And it's a barrel of laughs, let me tell you. But, hey, we're here now and that's what matters. 
> 
> Forgive me for the length of these notes, but I've got a couple administrative things to address:  
> \- WARNINGS WARNINGS WARNINGS. There are so many warnings on part two of this story, my friends. This chapter isn't that bad, but please keep an eye on the chapter notes as you keep reading. There's nothing that fits in the general AO3 warning categories, but that doesn't mean the content isn't painful and possibly triggering, so hang in there and take care of yourselves.
> 
> \- THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. If you are still reading this, if you still care, if you reached out over the past five months, please know that I deeply appreciate it more than you probably know. I won't navel gaze too much here, but my experience writing this story is very different from my previous 20+ years of writing fic and your comments mean the world.
> 
> \- THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU x2. These guys will get more of a shoutout at the end, but the only reason this behemoth is coherent and readable is thanks to my beta-readers. **azure-lullaby** helped with Part One and the start of Part Two, and **a-classic-fool** and **weesaw** have been tearing it apart and putting it back together and I cannot put my gratitude into words. Also, thanks to **weesaw** for letting me sit in her kitchen and hash out plot points a hundred times over.
> 
> OKAY GOD, THAT'S IT. I'll let you get on with it, I've made you wait long enough. I hope you enjoy the story, thank you for hanging in there, and Happy My Birthday to you :)

John is gone for a long time.

Like, a really long time.

In the time that Alex has known John, he's had exactly two conversations with his father: one on his birthday and one on Christmas. They didn't speak for more than five minutes in both of those conversations _combined_. John's now been in Washington's office for over an hour, and Alex is starting to get twitchy. Is he still talking to his father? Is he cooling down? John's raised voice made it into the lab only twice and not clearly enough for Alex to discern words or even judge his tone, so there are no ready clues for him, nothing to hint at what's going on behind that closed door.

He's nervous. He knows what John gets like after talking to his dad--talking for this long can't be good for him. 

Lee comes into the lab while John's on the phone, glaring at Alex as he drops his bag at his work station. 

"I didn't realize you could last this long without access to Laurens' dick," he sneers. "I'd hoped the police would have kept you busy for longer, but I suppose when you're used to fucking what you want out of people here, it's not hard to apply those same skills there."

Rage boils underneath Alex's skin, urging him to lash out. He wants to hit Lee. He wants to feel Lee's stupid nose breaking under his fist. He wants to defend his reputation and John's reputation and, hell, even Lieutenant Lincoln's reputation. It would feel so good to hit Lee, especially with all of this restless worry in his gut. Maybe hitting Lee will relieve some of the tension in his shoulders and stomach as he waits for John to reappear.

He holds himself back. Washington will fucking kill him if he attacks Lee.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he snaps instead, balling his fists and keeping them to himself. "What the fuck did John and I ever do to you? You're so fucking obsessed with our sex life, you'd think you were jealous."

"You saying I'm a fag?" Lee spits at him.

"I'm saying you if you put half the fucking energy into doing your fucking work that you do into harassing us, you'd be done and you'd never have to see us again," Alex says. He's proud of his maturity. He still wants to rip Lee's head off.

"What the fuck do you know?" Lee says. "You're a _child_."

And that rankles, it leaves Alex trembling in an effort to keep from launching himself forward.

But Washington will kill him and John is in trouble and Lee will be gone in five goddamn weeks. He's just got to keep it together a little longer.

"I've got actual work to do," Alex says, which is mostly a lie, and turns back to his computer where he's mostly just poking at next week's blog posts.

"You gonna email daddy and tell him I'm being mean to you?"

"No," Alex says through teeth clenched so tightly his jaw aches, "I'm going to do the actual work I'm paid to do instead of wasting my time arguing with you."

Lee snorts, but he doesn't say anything else and a few moments later he must put his headphones on, because Alex can hear his shitty music leaking through and into the quiet lab.

He rubs his forehead. He has a headache. His neck aches from sleeping at a strange angle in the campus police holding room. He really needs another coffee. He's worried about John. None of that is helping him focus at all.

It's another five minutes of mindlessly staring at his own prose and trying to figure out how to tighten it before he hears the door to Washington's office open. He turns around so quickly that his chair rolls across the floor. It rolls even further when he jumps to his feet upon seeing John's red-rimmed eyes and tousled hair.

"What's wrong?" he asks immediately. John offers him a vague, weak smile as he crosses to his desk. He doesn't even spare a glance at Lee's irritated scowl. "John?"

"Nothing," John says. His voice is flat and even. "Nothing's wrong, just the usual...family stuff. It's just family stuff." He sits down at his computer and immediately opens his email and then his research notes.

"Are you sure?" Alex asks. He reaches out and rests his hand between John's shoulder blades. He's tense and drawn and even that gentle touch doesn't seem to do anything to soothe him. "You can talk to me about it. I know you hate when I go off on your dad, but I'll keep my mouth closed, I swear."

That doesn't even get the smallest of smiles out of John. He leans slightly into Alex's touch, but that's it.

"I'm fine," John says, a lie so obvious that Alex doesn't even know how to respond to it. "I'm...tired. Let's just get to work, okay?" He doesn't look up from his screen.

Alex sighs and leans over, kissing the top of John's head and hovering close for just a moment before he sits down at his own desk and tries to get back to work. John probably just doesn't want to talk in front of Lee--he hates talking enough as it is, Alex doesn't blame him for wanting to avoid doing it in front of that prick. Alex will ease it out of him when they get home tonight, if not before, and probably bite through his tongue to keep from cursing out John's dad and everything will be alright.

It has to be. This is their summer, their three months of freedom, their Best Summer Ever. John's father isn't allowed to tarnish that, Alex won't let him.

The lab is unnaturally quiet for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Normally, Alex and John chat and banter and think out loud as they work on projects together, switching off when they bump into one another's specialities or specific interests, but today, John doesn't utter a word for hours. He shakes his head when Alex says he's getting a sandwich and offers to grab one for John, too. He picks at the sandwich that Alex forces on him later, but leaves most of it untouched. He stares at his screen all day, even when his fingers aren't moving over the keys and he's clearly not actually _doing_ anything. Lee leaves not long after lunch, but even that doesn't elicit a response. John just keeps half-heartedly plucking at his keyboard and shifting restlessly in his seat. He keeps staring ahead, barely acknowledging Alex at all.

It's unsettling.

Alex gives up a little before seven. The building is quiet, he's too distracted to get any actual work done, and John has stopped even pretending to look busy. He keeps rubbing his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut and staring into space. Alex is...well, he's scared.

"Baby, you about ready to go home for the day?" he asks. If John says _no_ , Alex isn't sure what his recourse is. Sit here with him until he changes his mind? Call a Lyft and force him into it? Call a Lyft and leave him here until he feels like coming home?

But it doesn't matter. John looks at him and blinks and just say, "Oh. Sure. And we need to feed the dogs."

Alex keeps one eye on him as they pack their things and leave the lab, making sure it's locked behind them. John doesn't say anything as they leave. He doesn't say anything on the ride to the Washingtons', either, and once they get there, it's all just talking to the dogs.

"I missed you boys too," he says softly. It's not his usual annoying dog babytalk, even, just a weak echo of his normal voice as he pets them both and lets them nuzzle him before giving them their dinner and letting them out to run around the yard for a few minutes. His face is showing an emotion for the first time all day--he's guilty for staying away, for not stopping by at lunch like he normally would, for leaving them from breakfast until now.

Once the dogs have run around a bit, John coaxes them back inside and Alex locks up the house. By the time they're back in the car, John's expressionless mask is back in place and it stays there all the way home. They climb the stairs together and John unlocks the apartment and walks in, not acknowledging Alex at all. He puts his bag by the door and goes straight towards the bedroom without pause.

"John?" Alex calls after him. There's a muffled reply and no further elaboration, so he closes and locks the door, then quickly follows.

John's already stripped down to a t-shirt and boxers and sitting on the edge of the bed. It's not even dark yet. It's not even close to dark. They haven't even had dinner. They were supposed to meet Herc for drinks.

"I'm really tired," John says, without acknowledging any of that. "I think...I think I'm just going to go to sleep."

None of this is doing anything to relieve Alex's lingering anxiety. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to John and touches his forehead with the back of his hand. "Are you sick, sweetheart?" he asks.

"I'm fine," John insists. He closes his eyes. "I'm just...I'm tired."

"It's not even eight," Alex says. "Baby, what did your dad say to you? And don't tell me 'nothing,' I know this has something to do with him."

"It doesn't," John says, the words dull and flat. "It just has to do with me. I'm just tired."

"John...." Alex spreads his hands out helplessly.

"Alex." John looks at him, looks him straight in the eye. He looks like he's aged ten years. Alex wants to hold him, or maybe shake him. He wants to know what's wrong. "Please. Just...just let me sleep."

Alex chews on his lower lip, reaching out to cradle John's cheek in his hand. Sometimes it's so fucking hard to know where the line is between times he should push and times John needs to work something out on his own. He draws John's face closer to his own and makes sure his movements are clear and telegraphed as he pulls him into a kiss. John doesn't protest--in fact, he immediately kisses back with more energy than he's shown for anything else all day. He fists his hands in Alex's shirt, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Alex tries to be gentle and careful, but it's not what John wants. John's kissing him like he doesn't know when he'll have another chance.

When they part, John's eyes are still squeezed shut and he's still holding onto Alex's shirt tightly enough that Alex is afraid the fabric will tear. Alex nudges his chin up, and John opens his eyes slowly.

"I love you," Alex says quietly. "You know that."

John nods.

After the silence stretches on too long, Alex sighs and releases John. "I'm going to have something to eat. Are you sure you don't want something?"

"Yeah," John says.

"I'll be in later, okay?"

He nods again, and Alex reluctantly gets up from the bed. He leaves the bedroom and glances over his shoulder one last time--John is curling up into a ball under the covers, staring unseeingly at the wall--before he pulls the door closed.

Back out in the living room, Alex pulls out his phone and opens their text thread with Herc. His thumb hovers over the keyboard and then he sighs and backs out, pulling up Herc's contact solo instead.

_Hey, I'm really sorry, but I don't think we're gonna make it out for drinks tonight._

He sits at the table and rubs his eyes, waiting for the response. He doesn't have to wait too long--it's barely a minute before his phone buzzes on the tabletop.

_aw man come on! Im leaving tomorrow!_

_I know, I know, I'm sorry,_ Alex writes back quickly. _John's not feeling well. I don't want to leave him alone._

_shit do you need me to come over there or smth?_

_No, it's okay,_ Alex types slowly. _I'm just worried. I'm sure he'll be fine, but he's already in bed. I'm really sorry, I know you're gonna be gone for a while. We both wanted to see you._

_nah it's alright i'll be back soon,_ Herc sends back. _that kid's never sick, so twice in one year's gotta be making him miserable_

_Yeah..._

It's not a lie. John isn't feeling well. Alex doesn't know what's wrong with him, but that much is certainly true. The last thing he would want is for Alex to air his business, even to their friends, so it's probably safer to let Herc think he's got the flu or something.

They'll be okay. He can take care of John. It's his job to take care of John.

_i'll catch you assholes when i get back. tell laurens i hope he feels better soon._

_Will do,_ Alex says. _Have fun!_

He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. He's getting ahead of himself. This is just one day. One day, one night, and it's not like Alex doesn't know what set him off. He bounces back from conversations with his dad eventually, this one will probably just take longer because it was a longer conversation.

If he keeps thinking that, maybe it will be true.

He tries to fill some time on his own. John obviously needs some private time and it won't do either of them any good if Alex storms in and demands his attention again. So he eats dinner as slowly as he can manage. He makes himself write the first draft of an essay he's been kicking around in his head for a few weeks. He channel surfs and finally, around ten, he decides it's late enough for him to reasonably turn in for the night.

It's really not. He's rarely in bed before two and his hours have been even more erratic than normal this summer, but at least it's full dark.

John is nearly exactly where he was when Alex left him two and a half hours ago. His eyes are closed, but Alex can tell he's not asleep. He's still lying on his side, facing the wall. Alex strips quietly in the dark and then picks his away across the floor and into bed. He presses himself along John's back, wrapping his arms around his waist. He kisses the nape of his neck.

"I love you," he says again, the softest whisper he can manage, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner. "You can talk to me about anything and that will never change. You're my whole world."

John doesn't respond. He doesn't move or speak for a long time, but he doesn't sleep, either. They both lay awake for hours, John still in Alex's arms, and when Alex does finally nod off, he doesn't let go in the slightest.

* * *

Alex wakes up early, which isn't surprising. He probably fell asleep around one, so an eight am wake-up is about three hours of sleep more than he normally gets. John is still asleep--actually asleep, not faking it. His body is still and heavy and warm in slumber and he's shifted during the night, with one arm clinging to Alex's chest and his head pressed against his shoulder. There's a deep crease in his forehead, a frown marring his usually peaceful expression, and Alex's anxiety from the night before makes itself known again.

There's no reason to worry like this, not right now. There are times when John has awful nights and wakes up the next morning like nothing happened. It's entirely possible that John will sleep this black mood off and stumble out of the bedroom in a few hours, sleepy and cranky but ready for a happy, productive day.

He makes himself get out of bed. If he stays there, staring at John for hours, he's going to worry himself into a panic. He makes coffee and puts a bagel in the toaster, then pulls out his phone to fire a text off to Burr as it cooks.

_Hey, John's not feeling well and we're not gonna be able to make it over to GW's to feed the dogs. Can you cover for us? Key's taped to the bottom of John's top left drawer. They need to be fed and let out in the backyard sometime in the morning and sometime around dinner. Thanks!_

He doesn't wait for a response--he knows Burr well enough to know that he'd rather run Alex's errands, bitching the whole time, thaen do something that might lose him favor with Washington just to spite Alex and John. When the toaster dings, he grabs his breakfast and takes his time smearing cream cheese on it. The longer he takes having breakfast, the more time that passes, the more likely that John will wake up soon. Hopefully.

He brings this plate and his coffee into the living room and sits on the sofa with his laptop, forcing himself to get some work done. He tries to aim for that hyperfocused headspace, for the way he gets when he's so keyed into what he's working on that hours go by beyond his notice. Maybe if he can get there, when he gets out of it, John will be awake and eating Cheerios on the other end of the couch, waiting patiently for Alex to come back to the land of the living so they can get ready to head out for the day.

It's not working.

Even as he hits his stride working, there's a part of his mind that checks back into reality every thirty seconds. He's getting things done, but it's not doing anything to calm his anxiety the way it normally does--it's barely a distraction as the back part of his mind counts down the morning minute by minute, his ears attuned to any noise from the bedroom. He's going to need to re-read everything he's typing before he posts it, just to make sure it's not just paragraphs and paragraphs of _Is John okay?_ over and over again.

Around noon, he lets himself get up to use the bathroom and stick his head in the bedroom. He just means to check if John's still breathing and go back to his work, but when he sees John's eyes are open, he enters the room and approaches the bed.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says in the most cheerful voice he can muster. John hasn't said anything yet, but Alex already knows. His stomach is dropping to his feet with the knowledge that John is just as bad as he was last night. "Molly invited us out for brunch if you're interested."

Molly has done no such thing, but she owes him about ninety favors after he went on that stupid boat.

"No," John says, and rolls over. 

Alex tries not to sound desperate. He sits on the edge of the bed and rubs John's shoulder. "Do you need anything? Do you want anything?" _What's wrong?_ he keeps himself from asking again.

"No," John repeats. He sighs and curls in on himself more tightly, nearly in the fetal position now. "You might as well go pick up someone else."

Alex breathes in and out and his nails bite into his palms as he squeezes his hands into fists. Once he's sure he can speak without shouting, he says, "I don't want anyone else. I don't want you to be awake so we can fuck. I just want to make sure you're okay. I want you to be okay."

"Oh," John says in the same monotonous tone. He doesn't offer any further explanation and Alex _knows_ he's hurting, he's being shitty because he's hurting, he might not even _realize_ he's being shitty, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

"I'm not going anywhere," he tells John and squeezes his shoulder again. John doesn't react. "If this is what you need to do today, I get it, baby. But if you need anything or something changes or you want to talk...I'll be right outside in the living room. I want to talk to you. I want to help--I-- _please_ \--"

He catches himself. Takes a deep breath.

"I want to help however I can," he says evenly. "I mean it."

John doesn't reply. Alex sighs and leans over to kiss his temple. He wants to squeeze John, wants to hold onto him. His arms are aching for it, are desperate to hug him so tightly that neither of them can breathe. Like he can push his love beneath John's skin on this awful day when he can't seem to accept it on his own.

He doesn't do that. He hugs himself and gets up and leaves the bedroom. He keeps the door open just a crack so he can hear if something changes, but he already knows that nothing will. Not today, at least.

Back out in the living room, he pulls out his phone. He intends to text Herc and invite him over to hang out so the apartment isn't so overbearingly quiet, but he remembers at the last moment that Herc's already gone. Herc's gone and Laf's gone and the Washingtons are gone. He can't text Molly or Ben--he doesn't want them to see John like this. He definitely doesn't want Burr to see John like this--John would never forgive him.

He stares down at his phone as he scrolls aimlessly through his contact list and then silently sets it down on the couch next to him. There's no one to call. It's just him and John and the oppressive silence of their apartment.

* * *

Early in the evening, Alex hears John leave the bedroom and cross the hall into the bathroom. A few seconds later the shower starts running, and Alex abandons the sofa to sit on the floor outside the bathroom door. Their apartment is the size of a matchbox--it's not like Alex couldn't hear anything that might happen from his perch in the living room. Regardless, he can't help it. If this is as close as he can get, this is where he's going to stay.

John spends over an hour in the shower. Alex listens, pressed close to the door, but it doesn't sound like he's crying. He flees back to the sofa once the water stops, but John goes back into the bedroom and doesn't reappear. When Alex gives in and goes to bed a few hours later, he seems to actually be asleep, his limbs heavy and his body splayed awkwardly on the bed. It's a strange sort of relief, seeing him look so natural and lazy, so _normal_ after two days of the tense, tight ball he'd curled himself into.

In the morning, John is already out of bed when Alex wakes up. The stress of the past two days makes itself known once Alex realizes that--he bursts into tears and then, mortified, scrubs at his face and stays in the bedroom until he's sure he looks and sounds normal.

John is standing in the kitchen, stirring sugar into his coffee. He looks up when Alex comes in and freezes, his expression twisting like he's not sure what to do with his face. He chews on his lower lip, not quite meeting Alex's eyes, and Alex shows mercy--he crosses the room and wraps John up in a hug instead of forcing him to talk or explain. John relaxes under his grip--he hugs back, clinging to Alex, and buries his face in Alex's shoulder. 

They stay like that until Alex is sure he's not going to do something embarrassing like shout or start to cry again.

"I don't want to talk about it," John says before Alex can say anything. His voice is rough around the edges. "I just--please, Alex."

"Okay," Alex says, though it's the last thing he wants. No, that's not quite right--the last thing he wants to do is chase John into another funk, so he'll deal with this condition for now. "I--fine. I'm just--I love you so much."

"I know," John says, and his voice breaks on the second word. They're both still and quiet for a moment. John takes a deep breath. "I know. I love you too."

John plasters a fake smile onto his face when he finally pulls away, giving himself a solid shake as if to chase away any lingering emotion. "We need to go feed the dogs," he says.

"Right," Alex says. He swallows back his protest--he should encourage John to get out and do things, even if it's clear his head still isn't in order. John loves the dogs; if Alex couldn't shake him out of this, maybe they can. "Let me eat something real quick?"

"Of course," John says, and gives him that fake smile again before retreating to the living room with his coffee and a banana.

Alex inhales his coffee and a Clif bar and retreats to the shower, where he tries to think this whole thing through. He's not great at thinking--he's better when he can talk something out, and even more frequently he just _does things_ and deals with the consequences later. He's not stupid enough to think he can do that with John. John deserves more care if Alex doesn't want to see him shatter or explode, and while _any_ show of emotion is better than the blank lethargy of the past two days, he's too exhausted to deal with the aftermath.

He needs to do this on John's time, as frustrating as that is. He needs to allow John to slip back into himself and adjust, and once he's closer to his normal self, Alex can probe. Something happened on that phone call, something that set John off in a way Alex has never seen him before, and he can't just ignore it and hope it goes away. It'll probably be the last thing John wants to talk about, but this isn't the first time Alex has had to tease a thought or feeling from him. He just needs to be there--if he sticks by John and supports him and loves him and takes care of him and doesn't leave, eventually some of that tension will melt away. Eventually, John will trust him with these things.

Right?

John puts on music for the drive over to the Washingtons'. He doesn't say anything, but he's trying to act like it's not a creeping, awkward silence, like it's totally natural. Alex doesn't know how to fill the silence himself--he's trying to be careful with his words until he's sure John's not going to bolt. Once they actually get to the house, though, the dogs step in and solve the problem for him, thank god.

"Hello boys!" John coos as soon as he opens the front door and the dogs come barrelling over to him. "What good boys! How are you? Yes, how are you? You're good boys, huh?"

Alex never thought he'd be happy to hear that stupid baby voice John uses on the dogs.

"Did you miss me?" John asks, crouching down to get closer to them. "I'm sorry, guys. I'm here now. Aw, my buddies, I'm here today. You're such good boys. Let's get you breakfast, huh?"

That's the most John has acknowledged the past thirty-six hours and he did it to the fucking dogs. Alex tries not to be offended.

He follows John into the kitchen. John's standing at the counter, in front of the dog food supplies, frowning down at a piece of paper. When Alex enters, he waves the paper at him.

"Did you have _Burr_ feed the dogs yesterday?" he asks. His nose wrinkles when he says it, the way it always wrinkles when he's talking about Burr, and it's so normal and adorable and _John_ that Alex can't stop himself from swooping in to wrap himself around John and kiss him. John makes a tiny noise of surprise, but he steadies himself with a hold on Alex's shoulders and kisses back easily, his body lax and loose in Alex's arms. When Alex pulls back, John tilts his head and gives Alex a small, confused smile. It's a real smile, though, befuddled, but genuine and nothing like the fake grin he'd been wearing all morning.

"Alex?" John asks.

"Nothing," Alex says. "You're just--I like your face."

John's grin widens. "I like yours too." He waves the paper, still in his hand, behind Alex's back. "But Burr?"

"Yeah," Alex says. "We had the spare key in the lab and he had access to the lab, so." He speeds through the explanation. He doesn't want John to linger on yesterday for any longer than he has to, not when he's so bright and animated.

"He wrote you a two page note about it," John says. He steps back and hands the paper to Alex, then turns back to the counter. "Sorry, boys," he says to the dogs. "I've got breakfast coming. I'm sorry you had to see stupid old Burr yesterday. Did he bore you? Did he totally bore you instead of playing with you? I bet he did."

John continues to make kissy faces at the dogs as he doles out their food and water, so Alex leans against the counter to read Burr's note. It starts, _Hamilton: Next time you need me to do you a favor, I'd appreciate it if you'd notify me in advance so I can make arrangements before my day has already been planned out._

Alex rolls his eyes.

The rest of the first page covers, in excruciating detail, everything Burr did in the house and everywhere he so much as breathed. ( _Just in case,_ he wrote, _something happens while Washington and Mrs. Washington are gone, I want to make it clear I touched only the items necessary for caring for the dogs and didn't leave chaos in my wake, not that I think Washington would have a difficult time putting together who would be more likely to make a mess._ ) The second page gives Alex pause. It starts with a continued recap of Burr's day with the dogs, but about halfway down, after he writes about letting them back in and where he planned to leave the key in the lab, he throws in something else.

_I don't know if Laurens is actually sick or if he's just in yesterday's funk. Between what I observed in the afternoon and the things Lee was complaining about today (along with your absence from the lab for maybe the first time since we began here at Morristown) I am, against my better judgement, concerned about his mental state. I know you think me dismissive of your relationship and of Laurens in general, but I am honestly asking if you two are alright, if he's alright, and if there's anything you need. I'm aware that you don't drive, that you now live much further from the school, and that Lafayette is not available to shuttle you around should you need it. Please let me know if there's any further way I can assist._

_(Although, as previously mentioned, ample warning is appreciated--I do have my own life and do not exist to cater to your whims.)_

If Burr not only noticed John's silence the other day but noticed enough to comment on it....

Alex has the urge to tear the letter up and text Burr that John's life is none of his fucking business and he's made it incredibly clear over the past year that he's just waiting for their relationship to blow up so he can say _I told you so_. But he wasn't wrong--Alex and John are more-or-less alone now. With Laf gone and the Washingtons gone and Herc gone, their core group of supports is pretty badly depleted. Depleted enough to rely on Burr? 

Well, that can be a question for another day. Hopefully a day far in the future--John's doing okay today, whatever happened is behind them, and Burr's act of begrudging charity can be pushed to the back of his mind for the moment. 

By the time he's done with the letter, John has opened the back door to let the dogs out into the backyard. Alex follows out to the porch, and watches as the dogs run around barking happily and John runs with them, playing with them, chasing them around, throwing things for them to fetch. Not for the first time, Alex's breath catches in his chest at the sight of John grinning and jogging in the sun. John is the most beautiful thing Alex has ever seen. He knows that's not an objective statement, knows that there are studies about this, about symmetry and what defines beauty. He knows that John's mouth is a little too wide and his ears stick out and he smiles sometimes like he has too many teeth for his mouth, but Alex just doesn't care. He's aware of his bias, of the fact that he only thinks this because he loves John so much he feels like his chest will explode, but that doesn't make it any less real in this moment.

John is his. Not in a territorial way, he's not claiming ownership, but because John is such a large part of his life, his world. It's like they told Ned back in June--there's no one word to describe it. John is too many things for him to sum up in a word, so it's easier, faster, _truer_ just to say that John is his. His everything. 

The last two days scared Alex. Something about them was different, it wasn't the same as it has been in the past. John's had days where he loses the battle with his depression, days where he just wants to lie in bed or hollowly goes through the motions of his life with no real energy, but none of them have had the vacancy that was in his eyes yesterday, the utter lifelessness. On days past, John's at least had instructions for him, has asked him to stay or not stay, has mumbled that he can't be a person at the moment, has told Alex that there's too much going on in his head to focus. He's never just...turned off. 

Alex hates to think there's a place John can go where Alex can't reach him.

He doesn't know why he's lingering on this. John's better, he's up and eating and moving around. He's chasing the dogs and smiling a real smile. He was warm and soft under Alex's hands just minutes ago, happy to kiss him and joke. The threat's past, even if a back part of his mind keeps returning to it, turning the past two days over and over in a quiet buzz of anxiety.

Eventually, Alex takes a seat on the steps to the porch. He sits up against the rail and leaves his arm stretched out next to him on the step above him, an open invitation for an embrace should John tire of playing with the dogs, and after a moment, he does. He sits next to Alex pressing himself snugly up against his side and resting his head on his shoulder.

"Did they tire you out?" Alex asks.

"Nah," John says. "I just thought I'd sit by you for a minute." He reaches around his shoulder with his opposite hand to pull Alex's arm more tightly around him and interlock their fingers. He squeezes Alex's hand and Alex squeezes back. It's hot and gross and John is sweaty from running around with the dogs, but Alex pulls him closer anyway.

"I'm glad," Alex says. He noses against John's hair. Being this close is calming that anxious buzz in the back of his mind, at least for now. "My heart. My star."

John ducks his head and Alex knows he's blushing.

" _Alex_ ," he murmurs.

"What?" Alex says. "You're my boyfriend. You're the great love of my life. Sometimes it's 'jackass' and 'shithead' and sometimes it's something sweeter. That's how this works."

John laughs at that, actually laughs, one of Alex's absolute favorite sounds in the whole fucking world. 

"You're obnoxiously sappy sometimes," he says.

"If I really wanted to be sappy, I'd say it in French," Alex says. 

John groans and ducks again, this time clearly trying to escape. "You're fucking ridiculous," he says, laughing. Alex tightens his embrace to keep John from squirming away.

" _Mon coeur, mon étoile, l'amour de ma vie_ ," Alex half laughs against the side of John's face. John laughs too and catches him by the jaw, turning his head so they're facing each other. As they stare at each other, Alex still smirking, the smile melts off of John's face.

"I don't deserve you," he says softly.

The anxiety comes creeping back in, the soft voice telling him this isn't over yet.

"Of course you do," Alex says as neutrally as possible. "We deserve each other."

John doesn't say anything, just pushes forward to kiss him. The first kiss is gentle, but the next is harder, and by the third, John is gripping Alex's shoulders and pulling him closer. It's awkward, sprawled out on the steps the way they are, and when Alex can't turn in the right way to meet John's demands, John gets up and slides between his legs, kneeling on the step below Alex and pressing insistently against him as they kiss. It's aggressive--tongues and teeth and each new kiss is harsher, like John is looking for something and getting more desperate every time he doesn't find it. They should slow down, but Alex doesn't know how to say that, how to stop John from taking more and more.

John lets go of one of Alex's shoulders and presses his hand against his groin instead. Alex opens his mouth to gasp in surprise at the sudden grip on his cock, and John bites his lower lip hard. It's not hard enough to draw blood, but it's harder than usual, hard enough to be startling. Now they should really slow down, but Alex's dick doesn't know that and the way it's stiffening slowly in John's grip is encouraging him.

"John," Alex tries to say, and John squeezes his cock again.

"I want you," John says against the side of Alex's jaw, right before sucking hard on his throat.

"I...can tell," Alex says. "John, not here."

"The yard is fenced in," John says. He lets go of Alex's dick to open the button on his shorts. "No one can see us. I want you to fuck me, baby."

"Not out here," Alex repeats. "The...dogs and...not here."

John stumbles to his feet, pulling Alex with him by grabbing his waistband with one hand and his bicep with the other. Alex sways on his feet and grabs John's shoulders to keep from falling back against the stairs.

"Inside," John says, and Alex hesitates. There's no reason to say no to that, really. The Washingtons said they could stay here, and they had to assume that if Alex and John were staying full time, they'd have sex at least once. But Alex remembers what John said the other day about the Washingtons' place and shakes his head.

"Honey, no," Alex says.

"Then my car," John says. He's starting to get frustrated--there's a furrow in his brow when he looks up at Alex, and now Alex knows there's something more going on here.

"No," Alex says. "I don't know where your head is right now, but when it comes back, you'll fucking kill me."

Now John's frowning, somewhere between anger and sadness. "Don't you want me?"

"Baby, I always want you," Alex promises. And he does. He's only a little ashamed to say if this had happened a week ago, back before John's mood dive, they'd be fucking in the grass right now. But something about this isn't right, something about the urgency John is pressing on him, the way his eyes are shadowed, the sadness and frustration hidden back behind his gaze. "Let's just go home, okay? Let's go home where we have lube and condoms and I'll do whatever the fuck you want me to do. But let's do it at home."

John drops his hands and steps back. Alex sways on his feet again, but manages to correct his balance as John whistles shrilly for the dogs.

"Come on, boys," he says, without looking at Alex. "Come on, let's go inside, okay?" The dogs both come trotting over to him. "Good boys--you're good, good boys. We'll get you some nice clean water, okay?"

John goes inside, the dogs trailing behind him, and Alex stays on the porch, just staring after him. His anxiety is back at full force. The glimmer of his John seems to have disappeared again and he can feel the panic starting to well up in him.

When he finally forces himself to go inside, John is sitting on the floor between the dogs as they lap at their little water fountain. Alex doesn't say anything, he moves to the counter and makes sure all the dogs' supplies are in order and neat. When he's done, he turns back to John and clears his throat.

"You ready to go?" he asks more cautiously than he intends.

"Sure," John replies flatly. He pushes himself to his feet and heads towards the front door. He doesn't look back at Alex the whole way out to the car.

It's hard for Alex to tell if John is angry or embarrassed or something else altogether. He's not looking at Alex and his expression is so perfectly shuttered that there's no hint to what he's feeling. He turns the music back on and doesn't speak all the way back to their apartment and all the way up the stairs. When they get in, he leaves his keys and bag by the door and sits down on the couch, hunched in the corner, all without looking at Alex. He turns on the television and flips to a baseball game.

Alex lets him stew. Or mope. Or obsess. Or whatever the hell he's doing. He washes his hands and then puts their dishes from breakfast into the dishwasher. He straightens the counter and puts on a fresh pot of coffee and then wanders back into the living room and sits on the opposite side of the couch. John glances up at him and then glances away without moving or saying anything. He doesn't get up, which is a good sign, at least. Alex moves a little closer and then a little closer again, until he's close enough for their shoulders to touch. After a few minutes, John leans his shoulder against Alex's.

A few minutes after that, Alex quietly says, "Hey, come here." 

John looks up at him again, eyes searching his face, and when Alex reaches out to cup his cheek, he leans into it. When Alex leans forward, he lets himself be kissed.

Alex keeps things measured and slow, gentle after the furor of before. John doesn't try to accelerate it, he doesn't get rough. He lets Alex take control and carefully kiss his mouth open and lick inside and pull him closer. John shudders when Alex's hands slide down his back and climbs easily onto Alex's lap at his urging, holding on, but mostly being held. 

"I love you," Alex tells John, kissing the corner of his eye, his temple, his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his eyes squeezed closed.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," Alex promises him. "You're fine. I love you." John sighs against his mouth and hugs him closer. "Let me show you how much I love you, baby. Let me, please."

John nods, eyes still closed, as Alex kisses down his jaw and throat, thoughtful and thorough and careful as he moves from feature to feature, his lips light and soft, his hands mapping John's body beneath his fingertips. This is well-known terrain--Alex has every angle and curve of John's body memorized, he knows it better than his own. He knows just where to put his fingers, his lips, to make John shiver and swoon, and after the first pass of his fingers against John's skin, he nudges him up to his feet.

"Let's go to bed, okay?" he says, and John nods, eyes still closed.

Alex loves John and has certainly worshipped his body before. More than one night has been spent learning every nook and cranny, touching him everywhere he can. That's what he tries to replicate this afternoon--laying John out against the sheets and making it his mission to kiss every inch of him, to chase away the shadows from earlier. 

John is strangely silent the entire time--their usual bedroom banter is absent and they're left with quiet breaths and gasps and moans. Alex opens John up slowly, with much more care than either of them usually bother with these days. When he slides into John's body, John's head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, a choked gasp escaping him. When Alex pulls him up so he's more or less sitting on Alex's lap, he groans and shifts forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Alex and pressing up against him.

"Alex," he murmurs. His lips are right against Alex's temple. "Fuck...Alex...."

With John on top of him, he can't quite move the way he wants to, can't fully thrust unless he puts him down, and that's the last thing he wants to do right now. He manages to find an angle, a movement that presses him in and out just enough to get the friction they're both looking for. John's fingernails dig into his shoulders and Alex kisses his chin, his throat, his collarbone. 

"I love you so much," Alex says between pants. "Baby--"

"Alexander," John whispers. "God...."

"Come on," Alex urges him. "Come on, baby." He pulls one hand free and shoves it between them, curling around John's cock. "I've got you. Come on."

John gasps and jerks once in Alex's hand and then comes messily between them. Alex lets go of his cock and wraps that hand around John's back again, shifting his weight forward just enough that he can flex his hips in and out faster.

"Alex," John says again, and presses his nails into Alex's shoulder, moving himself back and forth once, twice, and then it's enough to throw Alex over the edge, clutching John against his chest as he comes.

They unfurl slowly as Alex rides out his orgasm. They fall back on the bed and then John slowly rolls off of him. He crawls over to the other side of the bed to grab a box of tissues, and then crawls back and sets the box on the bed between them. What Alex really wants is another shower, but it seems more important that he be here with John right now than soak off the sticky remains of come and lube that he can feel still clinging to his skin. 

When he's done cleaning up, he tosses the tissues on the ground next to the bed and puts the tissue box on his nightstand. The air conditioner in the corner is cranking away, so he pulls the blanket up from the foot of the bed to cover both of them. John is lying on his side, staring at Alex and chewing on his lower lip.

"What are you thinking about?" Alex asks him, grabbing one of his hands and kissing his knuckles.

John shrugs. "Just that...I'm sorry I'm like this. I'm sorry--I wish I was better."

He looks away and Alex studies him for a moment, swallows the lump in his throat and tries to approach this calmly and directly. He doesn't know why he's so panicked about this. He doesn't know why his baser instincts have been kicking in for the last two days. Fuck, he didn't even know his baser instincts included protecting other people. John's changed him in a lot of ways, ways he doesn't even realize. He doesn't know what he would do without him anymore.

"John," he says softly, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," John says. He's still not looking at Alex. "Everything. I am. I'm wrong. I'm...broken."

"You're not either of those things." Alex wants to scream it, wants to shout it, wants to shake John back and forth until he absorbs it. Does he think so fucking little of Alex that he would leave or throw John over at this point? John is objectively brilliant and beautiful, he's objectively a thoughtful, hard worker, he's objectively a good friend. How is it so difficult for him to understand that?

"I'm not right," John whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut. "I wish I was right for you. I wish I could be what you need."

Alex is trying not to panic. "John, you're scaring me," he says. His voice wobbles in the middle and he takes a moment and a breath before he continues. "You are what I need. You're perfect. You're not wrong, you're not broken, you're perfect for me," he insists. John still won't look at him, even once he reaches out and rests his hand against John's cheek. "I wish I could make you see that. I wish I could make you understand." Is it some failing of Alex's own? Is there something he's doing or not doing? Is there something wrong with him that makes it hard for John to understand his love? He openly and frequently admits that he's never done this before, he's never been in a relationship, he's never cared for someone in this way. It's possible he's getting it all wrong.

But he's clear. He says it so often, tells John at least once a day and tries to show him without words. John can't doubt that Alex loves him endlessly. Where's the disconnect coming from?

"I'm sorry I can't," John says so softly that Alex almost can't hear him. The words drip with shame. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I can't be that for you."

"It's not your fault." He can hear the desperation creeping into his own voice. He doesn't know what to _do_. "John, sweetheart...it's not your fault." He tries to hug John gently, supportively, but he knows it's too tight to be anything but desperate. "That's not what I meant. Baby, you're so perfect."

John doesn't respond, just tucks his head under Alex's chin and sighs. It's not that he's been won over to Alex's point of view, he's just tired of fighting. Alex doesn't know what the fuck else he can do or say. He doesn't know why this is so hard for John to understand. He knows this is John's depression and the rest of the cocktail of mental health issues he works hard to ignore, but it's never been like this before. John will get depressed, but he's never been like this--hopeless, blank, resigned. Lifeless. Joyless. His John is in there somewhere--he saw him this afternoon, playing with the dogs and turning his nose up at Burr and rolling his eyes at Alex's stupid sentimental nicknames. He's in there, but Alex is going to have to fight to find him again.

And he will. He'd do more for John, he'd do _anything_ for John. He's going to find John again, and everything will be okay.

It has to be.

*

They stay in bed for another hour. Neither of them sleeps, but they're both silent and unmoving, until Upstairs breaks the silence by stomping around above them and shouting. Mrs. Upstairs shouts back, and soon enough the usual clamor fills their ears, somehow crystal clear despite the floor between them. John raises his head and pushes himself out of Alex's grip.

"I guess it's quitting time for the day," he says with the fake laugh and the fake smile from earlier that morning. "I think--I think I'm going to take a shower. There's just...a lot we need to do today. We need to get some work done before we go over to feed the dogs again, probably."

"John...." Alex says warily.

"I'm just...going to take a shower," John repeats and stumbles out of bed and out of the bedroom before Alex can protest further.

Alex listens to the bathroom door close and, distantly, just barely over the sound of the air conditioner and the screaming from their neighbors and the whisper of the television, still on out in the living room, he can hear the shower start. He lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to think about all that's happened over the past three days. He thought he was doing well--instead of rushing in and demanding to know what's wrong and how to fix it, he's been trying to do things John's way, trying to give him space to figure things out on his own, trying to give him the breathing room he seems to need. 

Maybe he needs to give it more time. Maybe he needs to try harder, stay quieter. John isn't Alex, he doesn't do things Alex's way--he needs more time, probably. Alex can't rush him through this, as awful as it is to watch.

He gets out of bed when he hears the shower turn off and slips into the kitchen to wait for John to leave the bathroom. He needs another minute to get his game face on. He's not used to this, to hiding his feelings and pretending things are fine. John could teach a masterclass, but Alex has always worn his heart on his sleeve. He's going to need to practice buttoning it up inside if this new angle is going to work.

Once the bedroom door closes, Alex takes his turn in the bathroom. He puts his hair in a bun and intends to only hose off as quickly as possible, but it takes a little longer for him to center himself and swallow back his fear just enough that it's not telegraphed in his posture. When he dries off and goes out into the kitchen, John is standing at the counter making a grilled cheese sandwich. Alex takes two deep, silent breaths and enters the kitchen, careful to make enough noise that John knows he's coming before he walks up behind him and puts his arms around his waist.

"What are you making?" Alex asks, though it's obvious. He's shocked at how casual he sounds.

"Grilled cheese," John says in his falsely happy voice. "Do you want one?"

"Sure," Alex says. John's shoulders, tense when Alex first touched him, relax just a little. He rests his forehead against the back of John's head and struggles to retain his casual composure. "You said something about wanting to get something done in the lab?"

"Yeah," John says. "I have some things I want to check on and we've got that last crate of books we should do before Washington gets back. Plus, you know...this." He gestures with his butter knife at the ceiling. Upstairs is still stomping around, though they've stopped shouting.

"Sounds good," Alex says. "I'm ready to go in once we eat."

"Cool," John says, and takes out two more slices of bread. "This won't take long."

Alex works to clear his head so he can gather his materials together. It's hard to quiet the part of his mind that keeps screaming that there's something wrong with John. He knows he needs to ignore it, that pushing right now is just going to have John freeze him out again, but it's hard.

They eat their lunch in silence and drive to the lab in silence, though John is endeavoring to act as if it's much less stilted than it actually is. Burr's at work on his poster when they arrive and Lee is nowhere to be seen, thank god. Alex doesn't think he could handle Lee without punching him today.

"Did you get my note?" Burr asks. Alex catches him stealing a look at them, even as he pretends he's engrossed in his poster.

"Yeah," Alex says. "Thanks. I'll handle it from here."

Burr looks up at him quickly and then focuses on his poster again when Alex meets his eyes. "If you're sure," he says.

"I am."

Burr hums and Alex tries to ignore him and focus on their work as he grabs the cataloguing supplies and follows John into Washington's office.

As anxious as Alex is, it's easy to fall into the rhythm of working side-by-side with John. They're like a well-oiled machine and can all but read each other's minds, so there's no room to obsess over every detail. They get lost in the stacks of books and sorting and scanning and metadata, and Alex is so distracted that when John makes a dumb joke, he laughs automatically. The sound startles him, so much that his hands stop moving and he looks up. John looks up too, and they meet each other's eyes. John smiles, hesitantly, and Alex smiles back and...that's that. He's still nervous, but now it's easy to push those feelings down and cling to the affection in John's smile.

They finish most of the crate of books and then spend the rest of the afternoon on their own work. John asks Alex a handful of questions about a photography project he's trying to put together and Alex gets John's input on a blog post and by the time it's time to leave, the weirdness of the morning is nothing but a distant, niggling fear.


	11. Part Two: II. and i know how dark you get late in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex has gotten used to the roller coaster, the whirlwind of highs and lows--or so he thinks. Laf is too far away to be a real ally, but he finds two more a little closer to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone I haven't scared off with all the dire warnings!
> 
> Speaking of, warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Implied suicidal ideation  
> \- One homophobic slur used by an unnamed background character  
> \- Drinking to excess  
> \- Like, _really_ excess  
>  \- The regular despair that is going to be a factor in the next several chapters of this story
> 
> Thanks again to my betas, especially **a-classic-fool** and especially-especially **weesaw** for pointing out the place where I lost track of the dogs, whoops!
> 
> The title of this chapter and the last one are both from "Add My Effort" by The Weepies.

Even as he falls asleep that night, Alex knows that the peace won't last. He's gotten used to this roller coaster, this whirlwind of highs and lows as a quiet voice reminds him that nothing has been settled, nothing has been fixed. He's not surprised, then, when John crashes the next afternoon after a calm morning, staring at an innocuous thread on Twitter and then getting up from his desk and sitting on the floor of Washington's office with his head between his knees. He's barely responsive when Alex tries to goad him into going for dinner and drives them home in a daze, feeding the dogs mechanically and ignore their attempts to play with him. The next morning is a repeat of of the weekend--Alex has to send Burr to feed the dogs again because John stays in bed almost all day, insisting that he's fine, he's just tired, and turning his back on Alex when he tries to talk about it further.

Seeing John so miserable is torture enough, but it's so much harder being on his own. Normally, he'd turn to Herc or Laf for advice, he'd lean on the Washingtons, he'd have someone to commiserate with. Normally, there would be someone else around to notice that John was going off the rails. But it's the middle of July in the Summer of John and Alex--they're alone. There's Burr, of course, but Burr's spent the last year making his opinion about John clear as day, doing everything in his power to get Alex to decide that being with John is a mistake--Alex can't betray John by going to Burr with this, despite his knowing looks. 

He doesn't understand how something that seemed like a blessing just a few weeks ago has burnt out so quickly.

Monday is another morning where John rises before Alex and is already drinking coffee by the time Alex gets out of bed. He answers Alex's questions about the day before with only vague murmurings and shrugs, changing the subject swiftly as they prepare to give the dogs breakfast and then move on to their work at the lab. 

All of this pretending is getting under Alex's skin and hooking its claws into him. He's not like this. The closest he can get to this sort of playacting is his double life as Athenodorus, but even that hardly counts--he's never tried to pretend to be someone else, just kept his identity hidden. Athenodorus and Alexander have the same temper, the same curiosity, the same wit, hell, even the same writing style. It's hardly pretending, and it's certainly not pretending like this. His chest hurts every time he nods after John claims he's fine, every time he meets one of John's fake smiles with one of his own.

Alex realizes around lunch that he hasn't seen John in over an hour. It's time to visit the dogs, time to take a break from work for an hour or so, and John is nowhere to be found. Lee is looking at some photos on the lightbox and Burr is working at his desk and Alex is afraid to ask either of them if they've seen John. Lee's response would likely be full of scorn and Burr's disapproving, smug look is the last thing Alex wants to see today. His only option, then, is to find John on his own, casually picking up his phone and locking his laptop and wandering out of the lab.

John's not in Washington's office or von Steuben's. Molly hasn't seen him and he's not in the photography lab. Alex checks the bathroom on their floor and the tiny, single-stall bathroom in the basement. He glances into each of the empty lab spaces. He calls John once, twice, three times as he looks through the parapsych building and a fourth time as he exits and starts to cross the campus. 

His palms are sweating. His heart rate is increasing. There are thoughts going through his head, thoughts he's afraid to focus on or voice, thoughts that make him walk that much more quickly, his sneakers slapping against the concrete paths.

"John?" he calls out hesitantly, though he knows it's largely useless. They're in the second of the two weeks that the summer camps are on break--there's no one on campus except a handful of summer term students in classes and some professors and grad students floating in and out of their respective buildings as needed. He doesn't see a single other person as he criss-crosses the quad, checking the library and then the bookstore. It's not until he's swerving into the coffeeshop that he encounters anyone who might be able to help, nearly slamming into Lieutenant Lincoln as she exits.

"Ey, watch it, Hamilton!" She manages to side-step him, holding her cup above their heads to keep them both from wearing her iced coffee. "What's the hurry?"

"Nothing," Alex says automatically, then, "Have you seen John?"

"I didn't think you two let the other out of your sight for long enough to get lost," she says, but when he doesn't laugh, her expression gets more serious. "Is there something wrong?"

"No." It's not technically a lie. He doesn't _know_ that anything is wrong, he's just...nervous. "Just, he hasn't been feeling great lately. He hasn't been himself and we have an appointment to keep across town and I just need to...find him."

It's an excuse so weak the warm summer breeze is likely to blow it away, but Lincoln nods.

"Okay," she says. "It was a boring shift, anyway. I'll take a look around and let you know if I find him, alright?"

" _Thank you_ ," Alex says. "I'm going to go check--" He looks around frantically and his eyes settle on the gym. The _gym_. He can't believe he didn't consider the gym first thing--John disappears to the gym all the time and his phone is in his locker while he's working out. Of course that's probably where he is--he must have forgotten to tell Alex he was leaving, he's going to be embarrassed when he realizes Alex has worked himself into a frenzy over this.

"I'm going to check out the gym," he says, whirling back to Lincoln. "Just, if you see him, send him back to the lab?"

"Of course," Lincoln says. She squints at him. "You sure there's nothing wrong, papi?"

"I don't know," he says honestly. "I just...need to find him."

As he jogs over to the gym, he pulls out his phone and calls John for the fifth time, even though he knows his phone is probably in his locker if that's where he is. He pushes through the double doors and starts to move down the halls. He glances in each room, peeks in at the basketball court, the weight room, the locker room. He even climbs to the second floor handball court to look out the window at the track up on the hill, but the only people he can see are a few older women power-walking. No John.

His heart is starting to climb into his throat as he exits the gym, already calling John a sixth time. That's when he hears it.

It's faint. He's surprised he notices at all. But the tell-tale hum of a vibrating phone is nearby, and it's in sync with the ringing on the other end of Alex's. He follows the noise desperately until he reaches the empty, sun-bleached pool.

The repair crew must have this week off too, because the shallow end still has equipment and materials piled around it, but the area is deserted save for John, sitting in the deep end, arms around his knees, head resting on top of them. His bag sits next to him along with his phone, which is vibrating across the tile as Alex's phone rings away in his hand. He doesn't seem to notice it at all.

"John?" Alex shouts. His voice cracks and he doesn't even care, especially not after John looks up, moves enough that Alex can be assured that he's safe and whole and unharmed. " _Fuck_ , you fucking _scared me!_ " The chastisement is high and wobbly, but he can't bring himself to be embarrassed about that. His hands are shaking. "I couldn't find you, I looked everywhere, I thought you were--I couldn't _find you_."

"Oh," John says softly. "I'm sorry."

He makes no effort to move, so it's Alex who stumbles over the equipment and down the wide steps at the shallow end, racing across the bottom to where John is still sitting. His knees thud painfully against the tile as he drops down to throw his arms around John, who leans against him, but doesn't embrace him.

"You're a fucking _asshole_!" Alex whispers fiercely. "I was _calling you!_ " The urge to babble angry nonsense until John sees reason and apologizes-- _really_ apologizes--is strong, but Alex struggles to swallow it down. His nails bite into John's arms, but they don't elicit any more of a reaction than the hug does.

"I wasn't paying attention," John says. The worst part is that it's the truth. Alex knows there's no deeper reason, nothing was happening, no one was here distracting him, nothing was demanding his attention. He just sat there while the phone rang six times and didn't bother to pick it up, didn't think that maybe the boyfriend he abandoned in the lab without explanation might be looking for him.

Alex wants to shout, but what good is shouting? It won't have any effect. 

"God," he breathes, squeezing John tightly against him. "Fuck."

"Sorry," John says dully.

Alex releases him, though his heart is still racing, spending the last of that nervous adrenaline even now that he can see that John is alright. He curls his hands into fists and rocks backwards onto his ass, sitting next to John and relieving the strain on his knees, which are sure to be purple and bruised tomorrow. Fuck, that drop hurt.

"I just needed to be somewhere quiet," John tells him. Alex ignores his impulse to rattle off a list of a dozen other quiet places on campus, to snap that he could have mentioned that instead of just disappearing. Instead he just nods tightly and concentrates on catching his breath.

"Sorry," John repeats, and this time he inches closer, allows their shoulders to press together. Alex sighs and slumps against him.

"I know." What else is there to do or say?

It takes some time for him to catch his breath and settle the nervous squirming in his stomach. When he's finally on even footing again, he stands up and offers John his hand, then pulls him up as well.

"Oh, the dogs," John says, finally looking down at his phone and its display of six missed calls, three texts, and a reminder to visit the dogs for lunch. 

"Yeah," Alex snaps, "The _dogs_." Not the six missed calls from his frantic boyfriend, not the _John please just tell me you're okay please_ texts. The fucking dogs.

John crosses his arms and walks a little faster. His gaze is sharp, more animated than he's been all day. "I'm going to go do the errand that our boss asked us to do while he was gone, do you have some kind of fucking problem with that?"

"No," Alex says between gritted teeth, increasing his pace to keep up, "I'm just kind of pissed that you took off without saying anything and would have, presumably, stayed away indefinitely if not for the _dogs_."

John rolls his eyes. "Jesus christ, I just wanted two seconds alone, is that a crime? I can't go anywhere without you breathing down my neck."

That's a blow right to Alex's solar plexus. The air leaves his lungs and he stumbles mid-stride, his heart constricting tightly.

John's lashing out because that's what he does when he feels upset or confused or threatened. Alex knows that, Alex has dealt with this before, Alex knows he doesn't _mean it_ , but there's knowing and _knowing_. The words still stung when they hit him, and no amount of logic can take away that pain.

He slows to a stop, shaking his head. He concentrates on not spewing his own frustrations back, shouting at John to grow up and get his shit together. John is hurting. Something is going on and John is in some kind of pain and Alex needs to take that into account and not do or say anything he might regret.

John goes another three or four yards before he realizes he's alone and stops, turning around to glare impatiently at Alex. "Aren't you coming?"

"I thought maybe you needed more alone time," Alex says with only half the venom he wants to. John just fucking rolls his eyes again, like a bratty child.

"Whatever," he mutters, and continues on to the car without sparing Alex a second glance.

All of Alex's energy has evaporated. He's in the middle of campus, halfway between the gym and the parapsych building, and just sitting down on the grass seems like a better alternative than returning to the lab. His head is still ringing with John's words and, if he's honest with himself, his anxiety from the morning hasn't quite cleared out. Logic and anxiety never mix, and it's keeping him from looking at this whole afternoon objectively.

"Hamilton?"

He turns slowly at the sound of his name. Lieutenant Lincoln is jogging towards him.

"Did you find him?" she asks.

"Yeah," Alex murmurs. "Yeah, I just found him, he's fine."

She slows to a stop and gives him a very pointed once over.

"I'd've thought you'd be a little happier about that," she says. He shrugs. "Hamilton...is something going on?"

"No," he says. He doesn't want to have this conversation with a near stranger. Not now, certainly, and probably never. "It's just been a rough couple weeks. Thanks for helping us out."

He tries to smile, but he knows he doesn't nail it.

"Look, kid, I know Wash is away. If you need something and he's not here...." She shrugs. "I don't know what's wrong, but you're a shitty liar, and if you need anything, my door is open. It's summer, so my hours are all over the place, but here." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her wallet to dig out a business card. She holds it out and waves it until Alex gives in and takes it from her. "My cell is on there. If you're in trouble, if your boy is in trouble...give me a call and I'll see how I can help."

"You don't have to do that," Alex murmurs, staring down at the cream-colored slip of cardboard. Lincoln is apparently the head of campus security. He's not sure he knew that before; he just assumed she was some bored underling whom they amused.

"I know," she says. "But, for all you're fucking troublemakers, you're good kids and you spend an absurd amount of time on this fucking campus. Don't you two have hobbies?"

Alex makes a noise that might be a laugh. It gets stuck in his throat, too thick with irony to pass up unencumbered. "Working on it," he says roughly.

"Try to stay out of trouble," she tells him, not unkindly. 

"I will," Alex says. He pulls out his wallet and puts the business card inside of it. "Thanks."

"No problem, papi," she says, and then heads back towards campus security.

Alex possibly feels worse than he did when John left. He thought he was managing this. Sure, Burr knew something was up, but Burr's a nosy asshole. Maybe he hasn't been managing it as well as he thought.

As well as he hoped.

He goes to the coffee shop instead of going back to the lab--it's closer, and he hates the idea of going back to Lee and Burr this fragile, even if they might not know it to look at him. The coffee shop is mostly empty at the moment--there's a professor Alex doesn't recognize sitting in a booth in the back and two workers idling behind the counter. Alex orders a coffee and a sandwich he doesn't feel like eating, and then deposits himself at the table furthest away from everyone else.

He plays the afternoon over and over again in his mind as he takes apart the sandwich and eats it one element at a time, slowly and absently while he stirs his coffee and stares into space. He thinks of a million different ways he could have handled it, things he could have said that would have been smarter and kinder, things he could have said that would have gotten through to John and made him open up. 

He knows, of course, that the John in his head is much more open to reason and compassion than his living, breathing John. The John in his head is easily swayed by Alex's gentle, unassuming questions. The John in his head confesses what's wrong at the drop of a hat, because the John in his head is a fantasy. Normally, he'd take his actual John over an idealized fantasy any day of the week, his smart, sharp, unpredictable, asshole, flesh-and-blood boyfriend. Right now, he wishes so fucking badly that his mental John stand-in could be real, just for long enough to get to the bottom of this week of mood swings and deep depression.

When all that's left of his sandwich is some crusts of bread and a pile of onions, he knocks back the rest of his coffee and returns to the lab. He doesn't think he'll lose it if Lee makes a shitty remark or Burr "innocently" asks where John is, so he's probably safe for people again, even if his brain is still focused on a mix of what's already been said and a hundred different ways he can confront John when he gets back. 

In the end, all of the possible confrontations die on his lips when John returns to the lab. Alex's eyes snap to him the moment he enters and he watches as John crosses the room and drops his bag next to his desk. He puts his phone on top of it and then turns to Alex. He doesn't look him in the eye, but he licks his lips and opens his mouth to speak.

He doesn't say anything. He closes his mouth again.

They stay there, Alex sitting at his desk, John standing next to it, neither of them looking the other in the face, for a few uncomfortable seconds before John sighs and takes Alex's hand, tugging him up from his seat. Alex wants to resist, imagines himself refusing to budge and going back to his work, but he doesn't even hesitate to move. He follows John out of the lab and down the hall to Greene's office, far away from the prying ears of Lee or Burr. 

John still doesn't look at Alex once they're inside, staring instead at the floor, the walls, the desk. He runs a hand through his loose curls.

"I'm sorry," he finally says. It's a fuller apology than the token words he offered in the pool. There's feeling behind it, meaning. Alex wishes he wasn't such a soft touch--John hasn't even said anything else yet, and already Alex forgives him. "Before, I shouldn't have--I shouldn't have disappeared and I _really_ shouldn't have said--I don't think you're breathing down my neck. I want you around. I'm sorry."

"Okay," Alex says quietly.

"I'm really sorry, I'm just--I'm tired. I'm really tired, it's making me...irritable. I didn't mean--I'm just really tired."

It's barely an excuse--John was a sleep-deprived zombie during most of their first semester and he's never been like this before. But to push might tumble them over into another argument and Alex doesn't think he can deal with that today.

"Yeah, okay," he says again, and John's shoulders sag. He hugs Alex when he steps forward, tightly and fiercely. "Maybe we'll stay in tonight?"

"Yeah," John says, his words trembling with the force of his relief. "Yeah, let's do that."

Alex lets himself relax, lets himself get lost in the feeling of John's arms around him, the smell of his hair, the warmth of his cheek pressed against Alex's neck, the steady beat of his heart. He wishes any of those things, those solid reminders that John is alive and here and functioning, would chase away the foreboding feeling hanging over them, but it's still lurking in the corners of his mind, reminding him that none of this has addressed the root of the problem, that none of this is fixed.

*

When Alex's phone rings that evening, Lee has long since abandoned the lab and Burr is packing up to leave. Alex figures they have at least a couple more hours of work they can fit in before heading home, but he's not above taking a break to answer a call all the way from Paris. John's in the photography lab down the hall and he'll kick himself if he misses a chance to talk to Laf, but when he glances out the door as he accepts the call, he sees the light illuminated above the door, the signal that the dark room is in use.

"Laf!" he says, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

"Alexander!" Laf says with just as much joy and enthusiasm. 

"It's really fucking good to hear from you," Alex says, his chest tight as he realizes just how good it feels, just how much he needed this connection.

"Same, same," Laf says. "I would have liked to hear from you _more_ recently, but I assume you and John are too wrapped up in your sex holiday to text."

Fuck. He hasn't texted Laf in almost a week, now. He doubts John has, either. 

"Sorry," Alex says. "It's not that, it's just--"

There's no way he can end that sentence without an interrogation, so he stays quiet and hopes that Laf will change the subject.

"It's just?"

No such luck.

"I've been...distracted," he says. "Things here have been...my mind hasn't been where it should be."

All of that is vague as hell, so of course Lafayette asks, "What's going on? Is everything okay there?"

"Yeah," Alex says quickly. "We're all...." He glances down the hall again. The light is still on above the photo lab door. "No," he admits quickly. "I don't know. Things here have been strange."

"How so?"

"Just...." He turns from the door and goes instead into Washington's office, closing the door behind him. "John's been...something's up with John." He drops onto the sofa and pinches the bridge of his nose. There's no good way to say this; Lafayette is thousands of miles away on the other side of an ocean. There's nothing he can do to help them and getting too deep into it will just worry him. He has to say _something_ , though. He can't lie to Laf.

"What do you mean?" Lafayette asks. "Is he alright?"

"He's...." No. He's not alright. But Alex doesn't know have to say that with care and nuance. "He's just been...weird. Depressed. Distant. You know how he gets sometimes." This is more and worse, but at least that's not a total lie.

"I see," Laf murmurs. "How long?"

"Just a few days," Alex says quickly. "Less than a week." Just barely. "But it's always rough. He's just been...hot and cold and hard to reach. When I ask him what's wrong, he just keeps saying he's tired over and over again, like that's an excuse. I don't know. I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Hm."

"Really," Alex insists.

"And how are you?" Laf asks. "With Hercules away and myself in France, I mean?"

"Missing you dreadfully," Alex says dryly.

"You know what I mean."

Alex sighs. "I'm fine, we're fine. I'm worrying about nothing, okay? It's not a big deal, we've lived through this before, we'll be fine. Tell me about you. Tell me about Paris. Tell me about Adrienne."

The magic words. Lafayette sighs dreamily--Alex can see the exact expression on his face, the sweet, faraway look he gets whenever someone brings up Adrienne, the one he does his best to immediately hide the moment he realizes he's done it.

"I do not know how I can manage to stay away from her for a single day," he says. "She lights up every room with her presence and she brings such thoughtful insight into my work. Just yesterday, I was talking about the paper I wrote for Adams on distinctions between haunting levels and she made such an interesting point on the effects of age and disability on the relative strength of entities."

"Uh-huh."

"It made me completely rethink my thesis. She went on to suggest that I expand the last section of the paper to highlight...."

The downside to Alex's distraction technique working is that he's stuck listening to fifteen minutes of Laf talking about how perfect and brilliant Adrienne is. And, well, she is brilliant, Alex will give her that, and at some earlier point in his life, he might have been interested in how beautiful she is, but mostly it's besotted gushing about things that Alex already knows. Still, he did bring this on himself, and it's not like Laf hasn't had to put up with a year of Alex and John living in close quarters.

John. Right.

He wanders out of Washington's office. The photo lab light is still on, so he flops on the sofa out there as Burr finishes powering various stations down and getting his belongings together. Lafayette is still going on and on about France and Adrienne and his friends there and the things they've been doing, as if Alex hasn't seen it all on Twitter already.

Burr, packed up, pauses in front of the sofa on his way out.

"Are you going to the bar tonight?" he asks. 

Alex covers the bottom of his phone as Laf continues on. "Nah," he says. "We're pretty beat, we're staying in."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," Burr says, and Alex raises a hand in farewell, humming vaguely at Laf and stretching out across the couch.

"And where is our John?" The question rouses Alex out of his mental to-do list a few minutes later--Laf has apparently finished his detailed update about the color of Adrienne's eyes.

"Oh, he's in the dark room," Alex says. "Our workshop for the AAP conference is on evolving entity identification and he's doing a thing on tech and digital versus analog photos. Otherwise, I'd have put you on speaker so you wouldn't have to say all of that twice."

"It's not a trouble to spend so much time praising Adrienne and Paris," Laf assures him, and Alex rolls his eyes. " _But_ I do want to speak with him."

"Then I suggest calling him on his phone, cause the last time I interrupted in the dark room I had to endure three weeks' worth of daily reminders that the light is there for a reason," Alex says. 

"Point. Well, then, I'm going to do that, and I hope to hear from both of you soon."

"We'll call and tell you all about our latest exploits later this week, promise," Alex says, and hopes he can keep that promise.

"Good," Laf says.

They say their goodbyes quickly, and Alex extracts himself from the couch and returns to his computer. He's just logging back onto his laptop when he hears John's voice enter the hallway.

"--Paris?...of course she is...of _course_ you are, you're a fucking pushover, bro...and that's why I'm letting you talk, man. I get it."

Alex had been reading an update from one of their clients to the tune of John's good natured ribbing, when he realizes that the silence has gone on for longer than he expected. He pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"What would make you say that?" John says very slowly and carefully from the hallway. Another pause, and Alex curses under his breath. He knows what's going on. "So I'm tired, that's not a crime, Lafayette. What does it matter to you?"

Fucking Laf, turning around and interrogating John about his moodiness. Alex should have _known_ that was going to happen. Why did he even mention it at all? It's not like Laf can do anything from the other side of the ocean.

"Well, you're not here and I'm _fine_." John's tone is short and clipped. "I thought you wanted to talk, not fucking interrogate me....well, I _told you_ how I was and you decided I was lying, I guess, because instead of--that's none of your business and not your fucking problem, so leave it alone."

John has been slowly walking down the hall this whole time and by now he's nearly at the door to the lab. Alex tries to look busy and resists the urge to turn around.

"Yeah," John snaps, "maybe that's a good idea. I'll talk to you later." John breathes in noisily, holds it, then let's it go and walks in. Alex can still hear his frustration in his footsteps.

"Hey," Alex says, aiming for casual, like he didn't just eavesdrop on that whole conversation. "Have you heard from Laf? He called earlier and I told him you were in the dark room and I didn't want to bother you."

"Yeah," John mutters, "I heard from him." He eyes Alex warily and then asks, "Did you tell him--what did you tell him about me?"

Alex knows exactly what John is asking and playing dumb is harder than he expected, but he manages it. "Tell him about you? Uh, that you were in the dark room? I told him a little about the workshop being accepted."

"Did you tell him I was--not feeling great?"

"I mentioned you said you were tired," Alex says carefully. "But not that you weren't feeling great or anything like that." He pauses. "Are you? Not feeling great, I mean?"

"I'm fine," John says, quick and sharp. More neutrally, he repeats, "I'm fine. I'm feeling excellent, actually."

"Well, good." An awkward silence grows between them.

"You know, we should go out," John says.

Alex feels like one wrong move and everything's going to come crashing down on top of him. "I...thought we were going to stay in tonight?"

John shrugs. "Let's go out, I'm feeling, you know, good. I want to go out."

Alex wants to say, _You don't have to lie to me_ or maybe _you don't have to prove yourself to me_ , or _'out' doesn't equal 'healthy' and you know I fucking know that_.

"Um," is what he actually says.

"I'm fine," John snaps. "I want to go out."

"I didn't say you weren't fine," Alex says quickly. "I just--"

"We stay in all the time lately," John says.

That's because John hasn't been able to fucking get out of bed.

"...sure," Alex says, against his better judgement. Maybe they'll go out and have a drink and John will have proven himself and they can go home.

Even as he thinks it, he knows that's not going to be how the night ends.

*

The Frog is more crowded than Alex expects. It's a Tuesday night, but there's some kind of trivia going on in the back room, so the front room is more cramped than usual. They manage to score a table by sheer luck, and John disappears to the bar to get a menu as soon as Alex sits down. 

At least, that's what Alex assumed he was doing. What he's actually doing, apparently, is ordering two beers and a shot, which he immediately throws back, then gestures for a refill. Maggie's on the bar and she makes a comment, but John doesn't laugh and her smile flattens out. She fills his shot glass again and he swallows the contents again, then tucks two menus under his arm and picks up the two beers, bringing them back to the table.

Alex tests out a couple of comments about the shots in his head, but none of them can end in anything good. Instead, he thanks John for the beer and glances at the blue paper of specials clipped to the menu. When he looks up, John is already starting to make a dent into his beer.

"Maybe you should slow down a little?" he suggests before he can think better of it.

"I'm _fine_ ," John insists, rolling his eyes. "Do you want to get wings or something?"

Alex wonders if John ever stopped for lunch. "Maybe a pizza, too?" The pizza isn't great here, but it's a little more substantial than wings.

"Sure," John says. "I'll go put an order in." He takes another long drink from his beer before he jumps down.

John's no lightweight and Alex isn't his mom, but two shots and half a beer in, like, ten minutes on an empty stomach can't be great. And bringing two more shots back from the bar is really going to compound the problem, not help it.

"Shots," he says unnecessarily, and hands one to Alex. He wants to decline, but he knows if he doesn't drink it, John will, so he offers a wan smile and then does the shot. It's tequila and it burns like kerosene on the way down, but Alex winces and puts the empty glass on the table. John is already washing his down with his beer.

This night is going to get worse before it gets better.

They don't talk much as they sit and John orders another beer when the waitress shows up with their food. His movements are already starting to get a little jerky, a sure sign that he's tipsy and on his way to drunk and he doesn't seem to be slowing down. Alex tries to eat quickly--the sooner they get done, the sooner they have an excuse to leave--but John is taking his time, though there's nothing distracting him. Conversation keeps starting, stalling, and dying and John's attention seems to be on everyone and everything else. He finishes his second beer before he even finishes eating.

"Want me to take care of the bill and we can call a car home?" Alex asks. Trivia is letting out and the crowd is starting to swell as people decide to linger a little while longer.

"Nah, let's have another drink," John insists, and gets down from his stool on wobbly legs. 

"I don't think we need another drink," Alex says.

"I think you're not having fun yet and you need another drink," John insists, and he's gone before Alex can protest.

"I thought you were staying in?"

Alex turns, sighing, to Burr, who's standing behind him. He wonders how long Burr's been there, how much he's seen.

"Change of plans," Alex says shortly.

"I see," Burr says. He raises his eyebrows. Alex hates him a little.

"And it's none of your business."

"Just curious," Burr murmurs. "I'll leave you alone."

Alex watches him walk away. He doesn't leave, like Alex expected, but rather settles into a low table in the corner. No one joins him. At least, no one joins him before John returns to the table and Alex's attention is ripped away again.

"D'you wanna play something?" John asks. He's holding a vodka tonic that he hands to Alex and straight whiskey, of which he takes a long drink.

"I--" No. No, he doesn't. He wants to go home. Immediately. Because he knows, _he knows_ this isn't going to end well. "--sure, I guess. But I'm pretty tired, so maybe just one game and then we go home?"

"You're not usually such a killjoy," John says, the words starting to trip into each other. It's subtle, but Alex spends more time listening to John's voice than anyone else does. He knows the signs of John dropping from tipsy to drunk to blitzed.

"Yeah, well," Alex murmurs, and follows John as he weaves through the room towards the dart boards in the corner. There are some white guys at one of the boards already, laughing and drinking and shouting at one another. They're all wearing t-shirts and hats with some sports team's logo on them, and the hairs on the back of Alex's neck stand up on he and John settle into the board next to them. 

"Red or black?"

"I don't care," Alex says. He's still got one eye on the guys next to them.

John rolls his eyes and presses the three black darts into Alex's hand and gets in position to throw to see he goes first.

Alex can't say he's focused on the game, really, but he appreciates that it distracts John from drinking. He nurses his whiskey as they play, but he doesn't go up and get another drink. Alex tries to draw the game out, tries to take his time with each shot. It's a fine line, keeping John's attention while also going glacially slow, but he manages to get them all the way through the game with no more drinks, no disasters, and without drawing any unnecessary attention. When John is drunk, "unnecessary attention" almost always ends in a fist fight, and while normally Alex wouldn't blink at the thought of John throwing a punch at a stranger over something dumb, today it just seems...dangerous.

"You win," he tells John as they finish up, which probably speaks to how distracted Alex is. Though he's not exactly a darts champion, John is already wobbling on his feet and Alex really was focusing on each throw to an excessive degree. "I'll call a car and we can go home."

"No, no, no," John says. He waves a hand at Alex and pushes himself off the wall, stumbling forward and then catching his balance again. "Another drink."

"John, no," Alex says. He grabs John's arm, but he shakes Alex off immediately, pulling himself out of the way. "I want to go home. Can we please just go home?"

"One more drink!" John calls over his shoulder. He's already headed back to the bar. "God, lighten the fuck up and have a fucking drink, Alex!"

Alex hasn't even finished his vodka tonic from earlier. He's barely touched it, in fact.

"I don't want a drink, John!" Alex says as he rushes to keep up. John is swaying. "I want to go home."

"Then fucking go home, I don't care!" John says. "I'm not your fucking mother. Do whatever the hell you want." He's at the bar now and nearly trips as he leans against it. "'Nother whiskey, Maggie," he says.

"Laurens...." She looks from John to Alex over his shoulder. Alex shakes his head quickly, but not quickly enough. John follows her gaze and turns around in time to see Alex's signal. He makes a derisive snort and glares at Alex, then turns back to Maggie.

"He's not the one asking, I am," John insists. He pulls his wallet out and slams it on the counter. "And I have money and you fucking sell whiskey and I just want--"

One of the other bartenders makes his way over and stands firmly behind Maggie, smiling coolly. _Fuck_.

"Everything okay over here, Corbin?" he asks Maggie, his eyes not leaving John.

"Yeah, we're fine," Maggie says. She hasn't looked away from John. "He's a friend, he's just had a little too much to drink. His boyfriend is going to take him home now, right?"

Alex puts his hand on John's arm, but John shrugs him off.

"Fucking whatever," he mutters. He grabs his wallet and storms off from the bar.

"I'm sorry, I don't know--fuck, I'm sorry," Alex says quickly to Maggie, and then rushes to follow. John's already back by the dart boards and seems to have found Alex's nearly full vodka tonic, still sitting on the table they were standing near while they played. He's halfway into it by the time Alex catches up.

"Let's play another game," he slurs. 

"I don't--"

John stumbles as he turns and barely manages to right himself. The white guys from before have spread over to the board they were using--they seem to be making up their own game that involves both boards and all twelve darts.

This is going to be bad, this is going to be bad, this is going to be so bad. Alex's heart is hammering and his palms are sweating and his ears are ringing. He's on the verge of a panic attack because there's no way this ends well and there is something wrong with John. There is something so fucking wrong with John and if he doesn't figure out what it is soon, John's going to end up dead. 

"Hey," John says to one of the guys before Alex can catch up to him. "Hey, we were playing here."

The guy turns around and sizes them up. "You left," he says simply. "You've gotta wait your fucking turn like everyone else."

"I was _using_ my turn," John says. He gestures at the guy with Alex's drink and it sloshes over the side. Alex can tell from his movements that he's hit a wall--he's wasted, now, sloppy drunk, slurring drunk. He's as drunk as Alex has ever seen him. "And I...I just went to the...thing. It's my fucking--give me that."

He lunges to grabs the darts out of the guy's hands and two of his friends suddenly appear at either side of him. He moves out of the way of John's grab easily enough and shakes his head.

"You're fucking wasted, asshole," he says.

"Fuck off!" John snaps, and almost falls on his face as he staggers forward again. "Fucking--fuck you! Prick."

"Watch it." The guy's eyes go hard and sharp. "Fucking back off, man."

"Make me," John snarls. He drives for the darks again and the guy grabs the front of his shirt. It shatters Alex's horrified stupor and he shoots forward, grabbing John and pulling him away, just as the guy starts to raise his first.

"I'm sorry, he's drunk," Alex says quickly. "He didn't mean that, he's just--"

"Get that fucking fag out of my face," the guy nearly spits, and under any other circumstances, Alex would let John go at that, let him beat the crap out of this guy and make him think twice before using that word again. But these aren't normal circumstances and he knows that any fight picked now ends with John beaten to a pulp.

It's against everything in him to walk away from the slur hanging in the air, but he manages it. He manages it even dragging John, who's full of fury and fighting against him, even as he gets progressively sloppier. His anxiety is mounting again--he's afraid he's going to have a panic attack if he doesn't get them out of here soon.

He pulls John as far away from the dart boards as he can manage, getting them lost in the crowd despite John's loud, drunken protests. John is heavy and unwieldy and Alex just needs two seconds to think about what to do next. He shoves John down and John falls heavily into the booth, slumping against the wall. He blinks slowly at Alex when he sits down next to him.

"Why'd you...why...." He swats at Alex, but doesn't finish his sentence, just rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes.

"John?" His alarm makes it more of a demand than a question. He shakes John's arm, hard, and sighs when his eyes flutter open again.

"I wanna hit him," John slurs. "I want him to hit me."

"No one's going to hit you," Alex says, grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead, as if he can break up his stress headache with enough pressure. "We're going home."

"Someone needs to hit me," John mumbles, and closes his eyes again.

"No one's going to hit you!" Alex snaps. The desperate tremble in his words is mirrored in the way his hands shake, even though he barely had anything to drink. "We're going home!"

Alex wraps his arms around John's chest and pulls him to the edge of the booth, then stands up and tries to urge him to his feet. He sways and makes Alex take all his weight, his head lolling onto Alex's shoulders. His knees don't buckle, though, and when Alex starts to slowly walk towards the door, he moves his legs, shuffling along and only half-dragged.

John is heavy. He's about Alex's height, more or less, but he's broader and more muscular and Alex isn't used to carrying things heavier than an audio mixer. He's afraid with every step that he's going to trip and fold under John's weight, leaving them both sprawled on the floor. If he drops John, he's not confident he could pick him up again. Not that he knows what he's going to do once they get outside. Call a Lyft, sure, but there's no way he can drag John up three flights of stairs. Maybe it would be easier to go to the Washingtons' place--the bedrooms are on the bottom floor, there. It would just be the two steps up into the house, and he thinks he can manage those.

He has time to think about it. It takes excruciating minutes to get John through the bar and once they get outside, Alex has to drop him on a bench. He's not letting himself panic over John's semi-consciousness yet. He needs to deal with one thing at a time to keep from having a total meltdown.

"I'm so _fucking_ pissed at you," Alex hisses, voice wavering, when John flops over on top of him once he sits on the bench. John's arms curl around him, his fingers twisting in the fabric of Alex's shirt, desperation in his grip even though it's weak. John smells like the backroom of a bar, like old beer and whiskey, like sweat and smoke, even though no one was smoking inside. He's sweating alcohol, at least that's what it smells like. Alex has to get him home, somehow.

He's fumbling for his phone to call them a car when he hears an engine start in the parking lot. He doesn't pay it any mind until Burr rolls to a stop in front of their bench.

"Get him in the backseat," Burr says.

Alex blinks at him, long and slow. "What?"

"You'll never ask for help and there's no way you can carry him home yourself," Burr says. "Put him in the backseat. I'll take you home."

Alex hesitates. The thought of Burr seeing him this vulnerable--seeing them _both_ this vulnerable--twists his stomach, but his desperation and anxiety and exhaustion win out. He gets up and tries to heave John into a standing position. It's more difficult than it was in the booth, when John was at least slightly aware of his surroundings and generally pliant. He's resisting this movement, groaning and going boneless and heavy as Alex attempts to lever him up. Behind him, the car door opens and shuts and then Burr is beside him, taking John's other arm and helping Alex lift him into a vertical position.

Together, they maneuver John, recalcitrant, into the backseat. Alex climbs in after him, nudging him all the way down and next to the opposite door and then rolling down the window. If John gets sick in Burr's car, neither of them will ever hear the end of it.

"Come on, baby, stay awake," Alex urges softly. John blinks sluggishly and tips his head against Alex's.

"I thought it would go away," he mumbles. The words are a jumble at first, running together and slurred, but Alex eventually parses them.

"What?" he asks, though John's clearly in no shape to elaborate coherently.

"I just want it to go away. I just want it to go away. I just want it--"

The taste of bile threatens and Alex takes a steadying breath. The words are quiet and muddy, but the repetition makes them clear. "Baby, _please_ , what's--"

"I keep seeing it." He moves his hand, closing it weakly around the hem of Alex's t-shirt. "I want it to go away. I want to be good for you."

"You are. John, you _are_ ," Alex promises him, but John just closes his eyes and looks away.

He can't panic. Burr is sitting in the front seat, two feet away from them. He can't panic. He can't _cry_ in front of _Aaron Burr_ , he'd never live it down. 

The ride takes forever, and John doesn't regain any coherency. By the time they get to the apartment, he can barely keep his eyes open, even when Alex shakes him. Alex's panic is starting to set in--maybe he should have Burr turn around and drive them to the hospital--but as soon as the door is open, John pukes onto the asphalt. That has to be good, right? At least that's some amount of alcohol not pouring into his system.

He's marginally more awake after throwing up, but still not himself. Burr has to help Alex pull him out of the car (wincing at the vomit on the ground and pointedly avoiding it) and he's no help once they reach the stairs--Burr and Alex nearly drag him up all three flights.

"Where do you want him?" Burr asks once Alex unlocks the door.

"I think probably--"

"Gonna be sick," John says weakly, and that immediately spurs them into action--they drag him to the bathroom just in time for him to puke again, this time into the toilet. When his stomach is emptied, he dry heaves several more times and then groans, resting his head on the toilet seat. Alex was mostly successful in holding back his hair, but it's still sweaty and sticky, a tangled mess that smells like bile. 

"John, you've gotta stay awake," Alex warns him. "Come on, baby, if you want to stay here and not go to the hospital, you have to stay awake for me."

John groans and makes an aborted attempt to sit up, then slumps back down.

Burr holds out a cup of water that he's gotten from the bathroom sink. "Make him drink this."

"Yeah," Alex says, taking it carefully so not to douse them both. "Thanks."

He wrestles John back up so he's leaning against Alex's chest and helps him drink the water a sip at a time. It's a long, tedious process, minutes ticking past. Burr sits patiently on the edge of the tub and doesn't comment at all, not even with his eyes. Alex keeps track of John's steady pulse and murmurs the occasional encouragement until the entire cup is empty.

"A cold shower?" Burr suggests when Alex places the cup on the floor.

"No," Alex says slowly. He deeply regrets the way he passive aggressively memorized of all the symptoms and treatments for alcohol poisoning in his freshman year at Columbia, when he had an annoying partier for a roommate. "A cold shower could trigger hypothermia if the alcohol has lowered his body temperature too much or slowed his circulatory system."

"Then a warm shower?"

"Yeah, maybe."

Burr has to help Alex get John to his feet, but he steps back once Alex begins to strip him. Alex tries not to roll his eyes.

"Put down the toilet seat, let's sit him down so we can take off his pants and shoes."

Burr complies, and even though John is largely uncooperative and mumbly, they manage to get him down to his boxers. Alex pulls his own shirt over his head, tossing it on the floor.

"Whoa, what are you doing?" Burr asks, stepping backward.

"He'll fall over if I put him in there alone," Alex says. He's pleasantly surprised at how well he's been dealing with this so far. His fear and anxiety are so heavy that they feel like physical _things_ on his shoulders. His mind is on the verge of showing him a thousand horrible outcomes to this night, a thousand ways he loses John. He can hear, on loop, all of those symptoms of alcohol poisoning and all of the articles he sarcastically read aloud to his old roommate. He wants to break, but here he is, standing up and doing what needs to be done and holding it together in front of their co-worker. 

"I'll stay until you get out," Burr says. 

Alex wants to tell him that he doesn't have to, that they're fine, but if something happens in the next few minutes....

"There's some food in the kitchen, I think," he says. "And we have Netflix through the XBox."

"I don't think I'll be there that long, but thanks," Burr says, and leaves them alone in the bathroom. 

Alex takes a steadying breath and then pulls John to his feet. "Come on, sweetheart. You'll feel better after a shower, I promise."

"I'll never feel better," John mumbles into Alex's shoulder. "I never have before."

"That's the whiskey talking," Alex says. "You'll be okay again soon."

And it has to be true, because Alex doesn't lie to John, not if he can help it.

The shower is a tedious process, but Alex washes the sick out of John's hair and scrubs the dried sweat off of his body and, by the end, John is marginally more aware of his surroundings, but still sleepy and despondent. He's himself enough that Alex isn't terrified he's doing to drop dead, at least, so he wraps John in a towel and sits him on the closed toilet again, then wraps himself in a towel and goes out to the living room.

Burr is sitting on the couch, reading something on his phone. He's helped himself to a glass of water, and he looks up when Alex walks in.

"We're okay, I think," Alex says. "You can head out."

"You sure?" It's not said with the skepticism that Alex has come to expect, but with something like genuine concern. Alex doesn't know why that makes him feel even worse.

"Yeah." Alex rubs his eyes. "Um. Thank you. For all of this."

"Don't mention it," Burr says. "Call me if you need anything else."

"Yeah, okay." He walks Burr to the door, still in just a towel. "See you tomorrow. Thanks again."

"Sleep well, Hamilton," Burr says, and he raises a hand in farewell, then heads down the hallway.

Alex closes the door behind Burr and then leans against it, closing his eyes. Sleep isn't on the agenda just yet.

John is sick twice more once Alex goes back to the bathroom, but he keeps his hair out of the way and manages to drink water afterwards. Alex leaves him sitting on the toilet lid again, brushing his teeth, and ducks into the bedroom to get them clean pajamas.

"I think I might be sick again," John murmurs as Alex helps him dress.

"That's okay," Alex says with more patience than he feels. "We'll sit here a while longer." He leans against the wall and nudges John back, tugging him up when he tries to lie down with his head in Alex's lap. "Nope, you gotta sit up. You can lie against me, but you have to sit up, okay?" 

"Kay," John murmurs, and rests his head against Alex's chest. Alex strokes his hair, his head pounding, and tries to keep his eyes open.

God, it's not even midnight yet. 

"I'm so tired, Alex," John whispers. "I'm so tired. I want it to stop. I want everything to stop. I can't do it anymore."

Alex's chest goes tight with impotence. All he can do is say, "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay," hoping that it's true and holding on to John until they both fall asleep there, curled up on the bathroom floor.

*

It's John who wakes him up in the morning, shifting and groaning and pushing himself up. Alex doesn't open his eyes, which already feel gritty from sleeping in his contacts, and catalogues his various aches and pains from sleeping on the floor while John relieves himself. His neck hurts, his back hurts, his wrist is fucked up, his legs are asleep. He has a mild headache and his whole body is vaguely sore, plus he's sweat through his clothes, so he's hot and sticky on top of all of that.

"What...why are we here?" John sounds _wrecked_ , almost like he's still drunk. Alex forces his eyes open and blinks up at John. He's ashen and wobbling a little. He leans against the wall for support and Alex forces himself to his feet.

"You were wasted last night," Alex mutters. "You couldn't stop puking. I guess we fell asleep in here."

John winces and covers his face with his hands, then stumbles out into the bedroom and collapses onto the bed. Alex turns on the air conditioner and then sits on the edge next to him.

"What happened?" John asks.

"What do you mean, 'what happened?'"

John opens his eyes and then closes them immediately, groaning. "I mean...I mean...." He trails off and opens his eyes again. "I mean I...don't remember what happened."

"Whiskey plus beer plus tequila does that to you," Alex says.

"No." John's voice is soft. "I mean...I think I blacked out. I don't--I don't remember. Not like, everything is fuzzy, like...." He covers his face with his hands. "Fuck, I feel like shit."

Alex gets up from the bed and goes back into the bathroom, digging out a bottle of ibuprofen and refilling the cup he was using to pour water down John's throat last night. He returns to the bedroom and offers both to John, who grunts in thanks. He dry swallows at least three pills--Alex can't quite see how many he shakes out--and then slowly begins to sip the water.

"What do you mean, you blacked out?" Alex asks, sitting on the edge of the bed again.

"I mean what I said," John mutters. "I mean I blacked out. I mean...I mean that I don't remember anything that happened after we finished the pizza."

"What do you mean, you don't remember?"

"I don't know what other English words to use, Alexander! It's just empty. My brain is empty. I remember finishing the last piece of pizza and then I remember waking up on the floor. Nothing in between. A blank space. I don't know how else to fucking define 'black out.'"

"Sorry. I--I'm tired too." He reaches out to brush John's hair back, but John ducks away from his touch.

"I feel like shit," he mutters without looking at Alex. "I just...don't. Not now."

"Don't...touch you?"

John is quiet. He focuses on sipping the water. Alex focuses on not shouting himself hoarse.

"Fine," Alex says. "Fucking...fine, whatever, I'll be inside if you need me."

He almost expects John to call back after him, to apologize, but it doesn't happen. Of course it doesn't.

*

Alex never noticed how many times they _touch_ in a given day. It's so natural, so instinctive, that it's not until John is giving him a wide berth that he realizes they spend most of their day in constant physical contact. Brushing their fingers in the hallway, leaning over each other at computers, tapping shoulders to get attention, sitting close on the sofa...and that's not even taking into account all of the times he touches John with purpose, with intent. He aches with desire to touch John, feels sick every time he accidentally brushes past him and then watches him flinch away. 

It goes on for the whole day. While they're in the Lyft to pick up John's car from the bar, while they're feeding the dogs, while they're driving to work. It's like there's a protective bubble around John, red flashing lights that warn him against getting within three feet. It follows them to the lab, where Burr pins Alex with silent, level looks that demand an explanation that Alex can't give, and back home, where they sit on opposite ends of the sofa, as far apart as possible. Alex can't decide whether or not this is an improvement over the days John has malingered in bed for hours at a time, but he's leaning towards 'not.'

There's comfort in touch; Alex has known that since he was a child, curled up sick in bed with his mother rubbing his back. He wants to offer that comfort to John right now, but he needs it for himself as well. He needs to hold John, to feel his heartbeat and listen to his steady breaths. He needs to have that connection to John so badly that it hurts him, twists his heart in his chest, wrings it out and shreds it to pieces. He spent the two years before he came to Morristown with only the barest casual physical contact with others--a hug after lunch with Ned, a high-five from a classmate, brief and impersonal sexual encounters--but these last twelve hours have been a nightmare. He thinks he's never wanted anything as badly as he wants to hold John right now, though he knows that's objectively untrue. He wanted to get off the island, after all. He wanted his mother to get better, he wanted Mr. Stevens to save him from a parade of distant family members, he wanted to get into Columbia, he wanted to work with Washington. But all of that seems distant and unimportant now. All of that is secondary to what he's feeling right in this moment.

John goes to bed around midnight without a word. Alex listens to him in the bathroom, listens to him cross to the bedroom, and wonders how long he should wait before joining him. He tries to work, forces himself to focus on his computer, but all of his self-imposed threats are easily waved off in favor of chewing on his lower lip and glancing at the closed bedroom door. He still plays the game for an hour, pretends that maybe something will actually get done until the twelve hour reminder for tomorrow afternoon's case buzzes on his phone. It's a feeble excuse to go to bed early, but he jumps on it, rushing through brushing his teeth and taking out his contacts, only to be confronted with the closed bedroom door and the very real possibility that he's going to have to spend a whole night in his own bed without being close to his boyfriend.

He slips into the room slowly and quietly, his movements across the floor soft and soundless. John is curled up tightly on his side of the bed, so Alex sticks to his own at first, staying close to the edge. He realizes, once he's settled, that John is still awake.

The tension in the room skyrockets.

Alex's mind has whirled into a fierce debate as he weighs the pros and cons of moving closer, of speaking, of acknowledging John and this awful, awkward cloud hanging over them. In the end, he decides that things can't get much worse.

"Hey," he whispers. It's the first word he's spoken in hours.

"Hi." John's voice is so small and soft that a lump forms in Alex's throat. He swallows it down.

"Can I hold you?" he asks.

"Please," John whispers. They both move at once, edging towards the middle of the mattress, and when Alex's arms go around John, he shudders. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I...."

It feels like apologies are all that John says to him, lately. 

"You scared me," Alex says instead of accepting. "You scared me last night and today and I--I thought I was going to have to take you to the hospital."

"I'm sorry," John says again, and Alex pushes away the urge to scream because at least they're together now. At least he has his hands on John's skin, can feel his beating heart. "I was scared too."

"Just tell me." Alex tries not to sound desperate, but it's a losing battle. "Just tell me when something is bothering you. Just let me help or at least let me know, John, please...."

But John is silent, wrapping himself even more tightly around Alex as his pulse races, but without saying anything else. 

Alex sighs and slides his palms up John's back, under his shirt and pressed right up against his skin. "I can't help you if I don't know," he whispers. 

"I'm just so tired," John says, and he sounds it. He sounds shattered. He sounds like he hasn't slept in weeks even though sleeping is all he does lately. Alex doesn't doubt it's true, but he also knows it's not a real answer. It's not the source of the problem. It's not something he can help fix.

"Go to sleep, sweetheart," he says. He doesn't know what else to say. "Just go to sleep. I've got you, okay? I've got you."

"It's not that simple," John whispers, but he doesn't elaborate. He's wrapped around Alex like he's a last ditch lifeline, all of his muscles tense from the desperate ferocity of his grip. 

"I know," Alex admits. 

The air conditioner hums and the clock ticks and John's grip doesn't loosen, even once he falls into a heavy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an endnote, in case it hasn't been _crystal clear_ through the first 300,000 words of this series, Alex and John aren't great at taking care of themselves and they're definitely not role models. If you or someone you know is so drunk that they can't speak coherently and they're falling down, they probably have alcohol poisoning and you should bring them to the hospital. If you're in the US, most states have Good Samaritan laws, meaning that you can't be charged (say, for example, with underage drinking) if you're assisting someone else who's in danger. I'm not a legal authority, def look up the details, but also...bring your buddy to the ED.


	12. Part Two: III. let go of all of your supposed crimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exorcism and its aftermath come close to pushing Alex to his breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI FOLKS.
> 
> So, given the issues surrounding mental health and suicidality currently, I feel like I need to take a moment to remind you that if things are difficult for you right now, this dumb thing will still be here when you're a little steadier. I hope I've made it clear a zillion different ways that John comes out of this okay and starts to take babysteps towards recovery, but that doesn't mean it's not going to be a bitch to read how bad things get, you know? So, do what you have to do, for real.
> 
> Additionally, this chapter comes with a warning for what I'm going to call **bad sex**. It is consensual, but neither party is in a great state of mind and it's...emotionally rough. (It's a little physically rough, too.) No one feels great or is happy afterwards.
> 
> So, the warning list for this chapter is:  
> \- Implied suicidality  
> \- bad sex  
> \- major depression  
> \- a couple low-key homophobic slurs
> 
> Huuuuuuuuuge thanks to **a-classic-fool** and **weesaw** for all their help in whipping this thing into shape ♥♥♥

Alex is prepared to cancel their case scheduled for the afternoon right up until the moment John comes out of the bedroom and kisses him on the cheek and asks what they have for breakfast.

Living on this emotional roller coaster is taking years off of Alex's life.

So, instead, they feed the dogs and then go to the lab to load up their equipment before meeting up with Burr at the house in question. It's an early investigation, gathering background information and doing interviews to figure out the best way to proceed. The bulk of the real work will be done tomorrow evening, if they discover there's more going on here than some creaking floorboards and leaky pipes. 

"It's just started these past few weeks," their client, Mr. Choi, says as he pours all three of them cups of coffee. "I thought it was the house settling--our son just moved back from college and we were up and down those basement stairs to store his things at least two dozen times. But the noises haven't stopped and now my husband says he's seen lights flickering down there when he gets off his late shift at work."

"Are the lights confined to the evening hours?" Burr asks.

"So far as we've noticed?" Mr. Choi says. "I'm out of the house by six-thirty in the mornings and don't come home until after five. Andrew usually works either seven to three or three to eleven and he's only noticed it at the end of those later shifts. Jordan sleeps all day and is out with his friends more often than not, and Lillian is at day camp until Andrew or I get home from work, so it's possible things are going on during the day and we've just missed it."

Alex jots that down in his case binder. Next to him, John is erasing and re-sketching the basic camera layout for the basement. He tries not to let his relief at seeing John focused on work distract him from his own work.

"Has there been anything else going on in the rest of the house?" Alex asks. "Anything unusual, things you might have written off as accidents or coincidences or, like you said, the house settling? Things disappearing, pets behaving strangely?"

"It's hard to say for sure," Mr. Choi admits. "With Jordan back in the house and school out, our routine is off. A couple times I thought things were missing, only to find them in Jordan's car or Andrew's work bag. Lillian is always complaining about not being able to find things, but her ADHD meds are being adjusted and at least some of the time those lost things have been sucked into the mess of her bedroom or misplaced while she's unfocused. We have a cat, but she's always been a little crazy in the middle of the night and, again, I can't be sure what she's up to while we're out."

"There are a lot of stereotypes about hauntings only happening at night," Burr says as he takes down more notes. "While many do, the timing has less to do with being during the spooky time of day as it does with being during the quiet time of day. For most people, night is the only time that the house is still, quiet, and inhabited for a long enough stretch to notice disturbances. It's entirely possible that little things are happening all the time and they're just rolled into the usual bustle of the day."

Mr. Choi nods and sips his coffee. "That makes sense," he says. "If there is something going on, I'd just like to be sure it's not dangerous. Believe me, I'll be relieved if it turns out to just be wind through a broken window."

"That's what it is eight times out of ten," Burr says. "Can you show us the basement?"

"Of course!"

Mr. Choi leads them through the kitchen and opens the door just outside of it. They follow him down the stairs into the basement, which is mostly finished and looks like it was a playroom when the children were younger. There's still a dollhouse and two shelves filled with toys and games against one wall and an entertainment center with an XBox and a Wii both hooked up to it. Against the other wall, though, are stacks of boxes and milk crates. Some of them very obviously must belong to Mr. Choi's son--college textbooks, a desk lamp, poorly folded linens, and lacrosse gear are all haphazardly shoved together. The others, though, are labeled--"Lillian Artwork," "Andrew ski equipment," "Mom's linen closet," "Jay PMP prep."

"Sorry it's so cluttered," Mr. Choi says. "We used to use an upstairs bedroom for storage, but my nephew was visiting and we moved it all down here, then my mom died and we cleared out her house and, well...we never quite got around to organizing everything again."

The clutter might make it slightly harder to do their job, but it's hardly the worst place they've had to work. At least it's all organized, and there's plenty of room in the middle of the basement for them to set up their equipment.

"Don't worry," Burr says, reading Alex's mind, "We've seen much worse. Mr. Choi, what we'd like to do now is get a feel for the room and the best way to set up our equipment. We'll take readings overnight and come back tomorrow afternoon to collect the data and see how to proceed."

"Will your husband be home soon?" John asks. It's the first he's spoken since introducing himself.

Mr. Choi glances at his watch. "In about an hour, yes."

"Great," John says. "I'd just like to talk to him about what he's seen before lining up the cameras."

"In the meantime," Burr says, "we'll get to work now and let you know if we need anything else?"

"Of course, of course!" Mr. Choi says. "Let me know if _you_ need anything."

Mr. Choi leaves them in the basement and their set-up goes...surprisingly smoothly. Alex keeps waiting for John to do something out of the ordinary--lose his temper, sit down and refuse to get up again, pick a fight. But no, he's as professional as usual, asking Burr and Alex questions as he finalizes the camera array and offering his opinions on the general room set-up. When Mr. Choi's husband gets home, he guides him through recreating what he's seen, taking careful notes the whole time, and then asks Alex to help him stabilize two particular cameras in the far corner of the room. He's pleasant as they say their goodbyes to the Choi-Perez family and promise to stop by between noon and one to pick up their data on Mr. Choi's lunch break.

Outside, as they load their equipment cases and rigging gear into the van, Alex tests out some observations in his head. _You seem more energetic today_ and _Are you feeling better?_ and _I'm glad you were able to work so hard today_. None of it sounds right--he's afraid that bringing this whole _thing_ up will just set John off again.

After John hefts the last box into the rear of the van and pauses for a moment to look over the packed equipment, Alex touches his wrist. John turns to him, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm just so happy that we get to work together," Alex says. He keeps his voice low, though he's sure Burr can hear him anyway. "I love working with you."

John's smile is wistful and small; something about it doesn't sit right with Alex. He turns away from Alex and doesn't say anything, just gazes into the back of the van, his eyes unfocused and distant. It's like he's not here, or maybe like he's lost. Like he doesn't understand where he is or why.

Alex feels queasy, suddenly, and he's grateful when John shuts the back of the van and gestures for Alex to get inside so they can go home.

*

The next morning, they meet up with Burr at the Choi-Perez house after feeding the dogs, bringing it all back to the lab to review together. There's definitely something on the recordings--fluctuating temperatures, an intermittent glow, and EMF spikes pepper the entire afternoon and evening of their recording, with a soft, whispery groan on the audio. Alex knows better than to ascribe feeling or intention to entity recordings without a lot of research and deep analysis of all the data, but he can't help but think the noise sounds...mournful.

Of course, he thinks, glancing over at where John is nearly falling asleep at his desk, his gaze distant and unfocused, it's possible he's projecting.

It's a simple Plan of Action--the entity is confined to the basement, they only have so much room to work within it, and it doesn't seem to manifest physically or have any physical impact on the room around it. They decide on a ritual and two back-ups, an exorcism if things go bad, and throw together the final diagrams over lunch. Burr calls the Choi-Perezes and makes an appointment for them to return after dinner, about an hour before the first of the six biggest activity spikes.

"This should go smoothly," Burr assures Mr. Choi as they unload their gear into his living room later that evening. "Right now it appears that the spirit is confined to the basement area, so you should be fine up here, but you might want to spend the night somewhere else if you can."

"The kids are at sleepovers and Andrew is working until eleven. I might meet up with him and get a hotel room in town if you're not done by then," Mr. Choi says. "Should you be done by then?"

"Hopefully," John says, but there's a distant look in his eye--he's staring at the basement door.

"Either way," Alex says, "it'll be best for you if you stay out of our way. Nothing we're doing is inherently dangerous to the living, but there's a lot of precision and timing involved. If something gets diverted, this could turn messier than we'd like it to be."

"I will be far, far away," Mr. Choi assures them. "I'll stay in the kitchen. If you do need anything, let me know, but otherwise I'll wait for you to come back up here."

"Good choice," Burr says. "We'll keep you updated on our progress."

John is still peering at the basement door, his mouth now set into a determined line. Alex touches his elbow, but it still doesn't drag his attention away.

"Babe?" he murmurs.

"Hm?"

"Is something wrong?"

John blinks slowly and then turns away from the door. He brushes Alex's fingers with his own and says, "Thinking, that's all. Let's get our shit set up."

They move quickly in the basement. They've done a few cases just the three of them this summer, but they're still used to working in a group of four or five. When Burr first joined them last fall, Alex remembers feeling like five people was too many--everyone was always getting in everyone else's way. He had no idea how professional IP teams of ten or twelve people managed to get their work done efficiently. He's gotten used to five bodies in a space, though, and now he's constantly afraid they're forgetting something. The room feels empty and the steps don't mesh together the way he's accustomed to. They're thorough and professional, but Alex is still uneasy as John marks the corners with chalk runes and Burr quickly mixes the chempacks they'll need. 

Alex pushes the furniture to the edges of the room, laying the salt circle out right in the middle. He moves on to tech next, setting up the environmental sensors that they need and starting their recording equipment. They're going to start with a gentle expulsion, and depending how the entity reacts, move onto a stronger exorcism if needed. Alex makes sure they have the rituals for both laid out in order, and then the three of them climb into the salt circle to get started.

Based on their video and audio evidence, the entity in looks like a level one or two manifestation--it's probably lost. It probably doesn't realize it's dead. It was hard to get a clear read from the data they collected, but nine times out of ten any entity that's stronger than a residual haunting just needs to be nudged in the right direction to leave the object it's haunting for good. It would be nice if that was the case tonight--these last few weeks with John have exhausted Alex and he'd prefer not to be working late into the night in an unfamiliar house.

When Burr and John confirm they're ready, Alex pulls out his Ovilus IV and flicks it on.

"Is anything down here with us tonight?" he asks. 

Silence.

"Can anyone hear us? Is there someone with us?"

Behind him, he hears Burr's lighter click on and then an herby smell that must be dandelion root, an attempt to better bridge them to the spirit world and open the line of communication.

"You're not supposed to be here," Alex says gently. "We're going to help you move on to where you're supposed to be."

Sill nothing from the Ovilus readout. He glances at John and then Burr, who shrugs, so he puts down the machine and pulls out his phone to begin the ritual. 

And, at first, everything is going exactly how he'd expect. There's some rustling and flickering lights as he begins his recitation, which is good--that means they've picked the correct set of chemicals and incantations on the first try. There's more movement as Burr sets the first chempack into the ritual circle chalked onto the ground and sets it on fire. All of that is to be expected.

The _whoosh_ that drowns out all the other noise and almost puts out the fire is less expected. Several of the boxes against the wall falling the floor is also not expected.

Fuck. This thing is bigger than they thought.

"Okay, new plan," Alex murmurs. The noise from before is gone and it's almost eerily quiet. "Let's skip right to the exorcism. Burr, clear the circle, write in the new runes and shit."

"On it," Burr says, dousing the smoldering chempack and sweeping the entire contents away into a waiting bucket of water. The lights flicker again and the _whoosh_ returns, louder this time. It's like rumbling of cars speeding by you on the highway, constant and fast and invoking just enough danger that Alex's heart rate has increased.

The sound fades again just in time for Alex to hear a snap and then Burr murmur, " _Shit!_ "

He whirls to look at Burr, who's holding a nub of chalk so small that Alex almost misses it. His eyes follow Burr's and he sees the rest of his chalk piece, broken off and lying six or seven feet outside of the circle, near the wall.

"Do we have anything else?" Alex asks. The foundation of the house is shaking faintly.

"Um," Burr says, looking around at all their neatly laid out supplies. Dammit, why didn't they set out back-up chalk?

"I'll get it," John says. He's staring in the direction of the chalk but not exactly at it--he's staring more into space than anything else.

"Don't be stupid," Alex snaps. "We'll figure something out."

"It's right there," John says. "I can grab it."

"Are you insane, Laurens?" Burr says. "You don't leave a salt circle in the middle of a fucking exorcism."

The sharp tone of voice and the profanity sound foreign coming from Burr, but Alex is more focused on John. He's still staring into space and Alex knows something is going to go wrong. He knows it--he can feel the dread pooling in his stomach. John is only a few feet away. He starts to slowly move towards him.

"John, don't do anything stupid," he says carefully, but before he can get close enough, John has darted out of safety and towards the broken chalk.

The lights flicker out again. There's another thump and a gasp that Alex would recognize anywhere, and then he's moving to follow John because he has to _do something_ \--

He's restrained from going further by Burr's arms tight around his chest.

"Don't do it, Hamilton!" he shouts. The lights flicker back on and John tosses the chalk back towards the salt circle. He's lying on the floor underneath two boxes. Alex's heart is in his throat as John stumbles back to his feet, but another box shoots across the room and hits him square in the stomach. It sends him tumbling head over heels, nearly flipping over mid-air due to the force of the box's movement. 

There's a scream stuck in Alex's throat. John's bleeding.

"Don't do it, Hamilton!" Burr shouts again. "Stay here!" 

One of the arms restraining Alex has disappeared and, through some miracle, Burr manages to light a bundle of sage on fire. He tosses it just as John skids across the carpet and flips again, hitting the wall with a thunk. The sage seems to distract the entity for a moment--Alex can almost feel it reeling. The lights flicker again and Alex finds his voice.

" _Get in here!_ " he nearly screeches at John. "What the fuck, _get back in here_!"

Behind him, he can hear the squeak of the chalk on the ritual platform, then there's the flick of a match and the smell of herbs burning.

"Read the fucking incantation, Hamilton!" Burr says and Alex forces himself to look away from John and grab his phone, unlocking it and pulling up the information he needs. He says the words quickly and clearly, plowing through them at a record pace, but managing to keep his pronunciation precise. The entity seems to be latching onto general destruction right now, leaving John alone enough to stumble to his feet and lurch back towards the salt circle. There's another loud _whoosh_ and the lights go crazy and then Alex is done saying the words and Burr is lighting the last chempack on fire, just as John collapses onto the right side of the salt circle.

The lights stop flickering. There's an inhuman moan and the air gets abruptly cold and then, just as abruptly, there's a shift in the atmosphere. The EMF meter, which had been jumping all over the place during the encounter, is silent again.

"What the _hell_ Laurens?" Burr snaps once the dust has settled and the only noise in the basement is their heavy breathing. "If you wanna fuck around with your own life, do it on your own time!" He throws his lighter at John and then stalks up the stairs, trembling. Burr _angry_ , really angry--Alex never thought he'd see the day. 

He wishes he was in good enough humor to revel in it. Instead, he helps John to his feet and immediately starts patting him down for injuries. "Are you okay?"

"Sore," John mumbles. "Fine." There's a scratch on his arm that's bleeding and another on his jaw. One of his elbows is fairly badly skinned, but otherwise he seems to be in one piece. None of Alex's poking and prodding makes him wince or pull back, so Alex is reluctantly satisfied.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Alex whispers. John looks away. "God, just...baby, don't do that again. It's not worth it."

They join Burr upstairs, where he's explaining what happened to Mr. Choi. Burr spares them a sharp glance, but his tone stays smooth and even the whole time, his flash of fury already smoothed out again. Alex tries to take John's hand, and while John allows it, he doesn't move to hold Alex's in return.

"We're unsure of where it came from," Burr tells Mr. Choi. "It very quickly escalated before we had time to ask any questions. I can promise you it's gone now, though, and you shouldn't have any further problems."

"You're godsends, all of you," Mr. Choi says. "What comes next?"

"We're going to clean up downstairs and pack up our stuff," Alex says. "Then we'll be out of your hair." He's not sure how much Burr has told him about the boxes being tossed around, so he doesn't specify just how much cleaning up they need to do.

"Let me at least make you some coffee while you work," Mr. Choi says.

"I'll give you a hand with that while Hamilton and Laurens get started downstairs," Burr says, which Alex translates as, _You made that mess, you fucking deal with it._ Alex doesn't have it in him to argue.

They make quick work of the clean-up. The boxes that fell off the stacks were, luckily, taped shut. They remained that way throughout the attack, so it's just a matter of restacking them before they sweep up the salt and ashes and then begin to repack their equipment. They work in silence and on opposite sides of the room, but that doesn't stop Alex from stealing glances at John whenever he's not looking or pausing to hang his head and squeeze his eyes shut and breathe whenever John leaves to bring something upstairs.

"Thank you all so much," Mr. Choi says for easily the twentieth time as they finish loading their equipment back into the van. "I honestly can't imagine what would have happened if it had been Andrew or one of the kids who got stuck in that mess. I can't tell you how grateful we are."

Alex leaves the niceties to Burr. His ears are still ringing and his heart is still pounding in his chest. John has been silent since they got back upstairs, loading first the van and now his car with single-minded focus, nearly vibrating in place. There's still blood on his shirt. Alex might throw up.

"Hey," he says softly to Burr, who's still putting together the invoice, "I hate to do this to you, but...can I take him home and make sure he's okay?"

"I think we both know that he's not okay, Hamilton," Burr says without looking up from his tablet. Alex, in an impressive show of restraint, does not tell Burr to go fuck himself. "Yes, fine. But you owe me one."

He owes Burr about five at this point, really. "Thanks. Don't worry about the report, I'll do it tomorrow, okay?"

"Fine," Burr says. He does look up then, frowning with an uncharacteristic concern. "Good luck. Be careful."

Alex isn't sure how to respond to that, so he cuts his losses and hurries back over to John.

"Hey, I traded Burr writing the report for dropping the equipment off, so we can head home." The blood on John's face is distracting when he looks up. Alex just wants to take him home and wash it off and make sure he's whole and uninjured and maybe shout at him for being so careless in a very obviously dangerous situation.

"Sure, fine, whatever." Upon closer inspection, John's a little wild around the eyes. There's something stewing beneath his skin, a restlessness that's making his movements short and jerky as he gets into the car and fastens his seatbelt. Alex watches him carefully as he pulls the car out of the driveway and onto the street. He's silent the whole time--he doesn't even put on the radio. In fact, he's silent the entire way back to their apartment, looping onto the highway and then off to the back roads winding to their apartment. 

They take their bags out of the car and trudge the three flights up to their place, Alex's mind working double time to formulate the question he wants to ask with each step. He's distracted enough that John shoving him back against the door takes him by complete surprise and he's gaping, wide-eyed, when John kisses him.

Kiss is maybe not the correct word--it's more like John is trying to devour him.

"John," he gasps. He tries to grab John's wrist, but John gets there first, pinning Alex's hand to the door with one of his own and using the other to shove his t-shirt up his torso. "John, what are you--"

"Shut up. Just--" John doesn't finish his sentence. His mouth is occupied again, pressed against Alex's, a rough kiss with teeth and tongue and enough pressure that Alex is afraid his lips might bruise. His fingers scrabble against Alex's back and his dick is already pressing insistently at Alex's hip. He grabs Alex by the shirt and pulls him away from the door, dragging him towards the hallway and then shoving him up against the wall and kissing him again, wedging a thigh in between Alex's.

"John, I don't think--" he tries to say.

"Fuck thinking," John says. His teeth are sharp and unexpected against Alex's throat. "God, I don't want to _think_! I don't want to fucking think, I don't want to--" He pulls Alex's shirt over his head and scratches his nails from his shoulders down to his lower back once it's gone, then grabs Alex by the wrists and pulls him the rest of the way to the bedroom. It's so abrupt that Alex stumbles. He would have fallen outright if John's grip hadn't been so tight, if he wasn't moving with such single-minded purpose and dragging Alex with him. Alex can feel the bones in his wrist grinding against each other, and then just as quickly he's released and shoved back onto the mattress. 

"John," he tries again, but John just pulls his own hair and groans as if he's in pain.

"I can't!" he nearly shouts. "I can't, I can't, I just-- _god_ , let me _do this_ , please just let me--"

And then another kiss filled with teeth and pressure and desperation, accompanied by John's fingers pressed against Alex's skin hard enough to bruise. When he pulls away, he rips his own shirt over his head and throws it to the floor, then moves on to his belt.

"Okay," Alex says gently. "Okay, baby, if this is what you need--it's fine, okay? It's fine."

John's whole body sags with relief, and then snaps back into action, grabbing Alex's arms and pulling him up into another kiss that's likely to leave marks.

It's not, Alex thinks, that the sex is rough. They've had rough sex. They've had sex rougher than this in worse places than this. His memories of his birthday party are blurred by tequila, but he knows they locked themselves in the bathroom and he knows they both woke up covered in bruises and bite marks and he had to move very gingerly when he sat down for two or three days. There was a joy to those previous encounters, though, and even the ones that weren't joyful were fueled by a mutual desire. This is...different.

It's not that John is hurting him, and he knows that if he wanted to stop, John would get off of him, but it still doesn't feel right. He and John have been together for almost a year. They've had drunken sex and happy sex and tender sex. They've had the frantic sort of sex that's fueled by hormones and desire. They've gone slow and fast, in their bed and in the shower and on the floor and in several semi-public places. They've had angry sex and make-up sex, they've tried some weird and intricate things for shits and giggles and they've lazily jerked each other off. Even beyond his relationship with John, he's fucked his way through a handful of people on the island and at Columbia, one night stands with strangers and mutually beneficial arrangements with acquaintances. Even since dating John, he's slept with two strangers in the months since they opened their relationship up. 

In all that time, sex has never felt this...wrong. Something isn't right with John, and Alex can't decide what it is that's raising his hackles about this. John is a consenting adult and Alex has consented to this intimacy and that should be all that matters, but it's not, there's something else. He's being rough and careless with Alex's body, but it still feels like it's himself he's punishing. It feels like, for all he's physically involved and excited, he doesn't want to be doing this. It feels like he's not really _present_. This is Alex's boyfriend, the man he loves, the man he's going to have a life and a family with, but at the same time, Alex can't shake the feeling that he's having sex with a stranger.

It's not his best performance.

He tries to focus and enjoy himself. He tries to ignore all these thoughts swirling through his head, tries to convince himself that John's hands are shaking and his grip is so tight because he wants Alex so badly, not because he's running away from whatever's been haunting him for the past few weeks. He closes his eyes and tries to remember better times, days when the feeling of John's fingertips on his skin alone was almost enough to set him off. Days when he wanted John wholly, deeply, unquestionably.

John finishes, though the look on his face makes it hard for Alex to believe he enjoyed himself.

Alex does not.

He throws a blanket over his lap as John lies on his back with his eyes squeezed shut, but there isn't even much to hide. His dick had already been flagging and now that there's no reason to even pretend to be interested, he softens even further.

John stays on his back, still and silent, eyes closed, face twisted into a grimace. Alex fumbles for literally anything to say that won't sound panicked.

"What are your thoughts on dinner?"

Or maybe there's really nothing he can say that won't make him sound like a nervous wreck.

John covers his face with his hands.

"I don't care." He sounds hopeless.

"I could order some takeout or...see what we've got...in the house...." He needs to regroup. His hands are shaking. He leans over and kisses John's shoulder, then pushes himself up and out of bed, snagging his boxers off the floor and wiggling into them in record time. He's rarely felt so _bare_ while he was naked. "I'm gonna go see what we've got in, okay?"

John doesn't move or speak, because of course he doesn't. Because everything in him seems to want to make this as excruciating as possible for Alex.

That's not fair. He knows it's not fair. But the little voice that normally pipes up when he's being an unreasonable asshole doesn't go any further to defend John or his actions. Instead, he trudges into the kitchen and leans against the counter, almost doubled over to press his face against the cool surface. His whole body aches--he's tense and sore and chafed and bruised and all he wants to do is take a shower and have a drink and forget about this whole crappy day, but even as he thinks it, he can hear the door to their bedroom opening and then the door to the bathroom shutting.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Apparently his shower will have to wait.

In theory, he can use this time to think. His original approach to figuring out this thing with John didn't work. His current approach doesn't seem to be working either, and he's sure there have to be alternatives, but just trying to think about them seems exhausting. He wishes, not for the first time, that there was some magical shortcut he could take, some wand he could wave so they could move past this. It's stupid to waste time fantasizing about that--it just makes him feel even more helpless, even more hopeless--but his brain takes a detour there every time he tries to think seriously about what his next steps could be.

Part of him wants to ask for help, but even if he knew what sort of help to ask for, there's no one to ask. He's not about to interrupt anyone's vacation or travel plans, which knocks out the Washingtons, Laf, and Herc. He can't go to someone John doesn't trust, which eliminates Burr, and he won't go to someone he doesn't trust, which eliminates Molly. The Washingtons will be back in just three or four days, but, god, that feels like a lifetime and he doesn't want to drop this onto their laps as soon as they return. It's not their problem, it's Alex's problem and he's going to handle it like an adult.

He has to do something, though. This is getting out of hand--no, it _has_ gotten out of hand. He can make excuses all he wants--and god, he wants to, he's already justifying every move John has made for the past week and a half, every word he's said, every reaction he's had, ready to spill them out like there's a stranger hovering over his shoulder making disapproving comments--but there's something wrong. This isn't just John being depressed like he always is, it's crossed a line into something else entirely.

He wishes he was at all equipped to handle it, or even identify it.

He pushes himself up off the counter. If he can't solve this problem--if he can't bear to think about it right now--he might as well do something productive. He goes to fish his phone out of his bag, abandoned on the floor near the door. He wants to check his email and blog comments and maybe text Burr about the follow-up paperwork for their case, but there are two messages from Ned on his lockscreen.

Feeling Ned!guilt is actually a relief from the John!guilt he’s felt for the past couple weeks.

His thumb stops halfway through starting a reply. Ned. He trusts Ned. John seems to like him. And Ned is a doctor. Or, he's going to be a doctor, at least. He's in medical school. That's practically the same thing.

He opens Ned's text and then immediately backs out and opens his phonebook instead, before he can change his mind. He scrolls to Ned and hits the "call" button, wedging the phone under his ear and moving to sit at the table. It's about as far away from John as he can get in their tiny apartment and it will have to do.

Ned picks up after three rings.

"Alex? Is something wrong?"

"No," Alex says quickly. Then, "Yes. Hey, hi. How are you? What's up?"

God, he sounds like an _idiot_ , John needs to _stop this_. It is quite possibly killing Alex's brain cells.

"Yeah, let's go back to the first thing," Ned says. "You only call on my birthday. What's wrong? What's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm...fine," Alex says, rubbing his forehead. He tries to keep his voice as low as possible--he hasn't heard the shower go on and he doesn't want John to hear this conversation.

"Is John okay?"

Alex is silent.

"Oh no," he murmurs. "Is he hurt? Is he sick? What do you need?"

Fucking Neddy, asking _what do you need_ right off the bat. Sometimes Alex thinks that the universe sucked all of his empathy out when he was born and gave it all to Neddy instead.

"I don't know," Alex says hoarsely. He tries to clear his throat, but it just gets slicker. He places both his hands palm down on the table, squeezes his eyes shut, and forces himself to breathe in deep. When he opens his eyes again, he's marginally more stable. "I don't know," he repeats. "Something happened last week--I don't know what, he won't talk to me about it--but something happened and he's just been...he's been...." He grasps at words, descriptions, feelings, ideas. "He's been depressed. I mean, he gets depressed. But never like this before. And I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help him. God, I want to help him, it's like he's drowning but he keeps swimming further away instead of letting me help him. I don't know, that doesn't make any sense...." 

"Hey," Ned says, so gently that Alex has to put his head down. "Hey, Alex, don't worry, okay? It does make sense, it makes perfect sense. And it sounds like way more than you can handle on your own." Alex wants to bristle at that, the way he always bristles at the implication that he's not competent enough to get something done, but he doesn't have the energy. "Have you talked to your mentor or your other friends?"

"No. No one's here. We're the only ones--everyone we know is out of town. And I wouldn't call otherwise, I swear, I just...I don't know what to do."

"Well, I hope you know you don't have to wait until a crisis to call," Ned says carefully. Alex wants to slam his head onto the table. Fucking--of course he sounded like a jackass, why should he be able to do anything right today?

"Neddy, I'm sorry--"

"No, no," Ned says. "I know what you meant. But I just need to make sure you know that. And I can try and give you what advice I can--I want to help you and John both. What's he doing? Has he told you he's depressed?"

"He won't fucking use the word, but we've talked about it before," Alex says. "Not recently. He's been doing really well recently. And there've been times when he's...tired all the time and down and can't get out of bed and really irritable and just a mess for a stretch of days. And that sucks, obviously, I want him to be happy all the time, but it's not like...." He pinches the bridge of his nose and wishes he had the vocabulary to express what John's going through. "This is different. This is...he's all those things, but times ten and just like...rapidly switching between them. One minute he can't get out bed, the next he's pretending nothing happened, the next he's trying to punch some stranger, the next he's staring off into space, the next he's aggressive...." He rubs the bruises beginning to bloom around his wrist absently. "It hasn't stopped and it's _so much_ and I know something's wrong, but I can't--" He forces himself to take a deep breath and backs up. "Is there any way...I know you're not a real doctor yet, but maybe if we both talk to him...I don't know." This is possibly the most times he's said "I don't know" in a conversation. "I'll pay for your train out to Morristown, even."

"There's no need to do that," Ned says. "I would normally be happy to go out there all on my own, but...."

It takes Alex far too long to figure it out. Jesus, he's completely lost track of time.

"...but you're already on the island," Alex says. " _Fuck_ , I forgot about that."

"I'll be back in two weeks," Ned says. "And I hope to god this will all be solved by then, but if it's not I can come to you straight from the airport. I'm flying into Newark anyway, it was cheaper, and I can get right on a train to Morristown."

If this hasn't stopped in another two weeks...well, Alex isn't sure what he'll do, but the thought of it is already making his stomach clench up with anxiety.

"I'm sure it will be fine by then," Alex says. He tries to inject as much optimism into it as possible, but it sounds weak even as it comes out of his mouth.

"I'm serious, Alex," Ned insists. "I'll text you before I get on the plane and once I land. I want to help him. He seems like a great guy and I know you're crazy about him, but even if you weren't and he wasn't, no one deserves to feel that way."

Alex isn't sure what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything at all.

"And if you need me," Ned continues, "at any point over the next few days, always know you can call. To vent or ask for advice or anything. I'm always here for you. In the meantime...talk to him. Ask him what's wrong. Even if he blows you off, it will probably help him to know you're there if he wants to talk. Tell him you love him and you'll wait until he's ready, but you just want to help him. You can't do much else if he's resistant, but you can be ready the second that he decides he is."

That's not the kind of advice that Alex was looking for. He's not sure what he was expecting--he knows, intellectually, that there's no magical cure or button he can push to make this all go away. But god, there has to be something else he can do. Sometimes besides sitting and waiting, something besides telling John he loves him over and over again. He's already done that--it's not working. 

"Yeah, okay," Alex says weakly. "Sure. I can do that."

"Is there anything else that you need?" Ned asks. "Is there anything else I can do from here? Anyone I can call, anything I can send you? Do you want me to call him?"

Alex glances down the hall. John has been in the bathroom for a long time, he realizes, and he can't hear the shower running.

"No," he says, getting up and walking towards the hallway. "No, that's all. I can't think of anything else. You've already done enough."

"If you think of anything else, don't be afraid to ask," Ned says. "I'm sending you so much love from down here, Alex. I'll be back soon."

"Don't worry about this," Alex says. "I'm sure it will be fine--don't let it ruin your vacation. And tell your folks I say hi. Tell your dad to say hi to the regulars for me, too."

"I will. Good luck. Call me if you need anything."

"I will," Alex lies, and they say their goodbyes and hang up.

He places his phone on the table and listens carefully to the empty apartment. For once, Upstairs isn't stomping around. Alex can hear the hum of the fridge and the whir of the air conditioner, but not the shower or the toilet or the sink. He gets up and walks slowly around toward the hallway. The door to their bedroom is still open and the room is empty. The door to the bathroom is still closed.

Alex tries the knob. It's locked.

"John?" His voice trembles and he holds his breath until he hears movement from inside.

"What do you want?"

"I just...wanted to make sure you were alright," Alex says. "See if there's anything you need. You've, um. You've been in there for a while."

"I'm fine."

So they're back to this game again.

"Sweetheart, I'd really like it if you'd come out so we can talk," he says.

"It doesn't matter. I don't care. You shouldn't care."

"Care about what?" Alex crouches down outside the door, leans over to look through the gap between the door and the floor. He can make out John huddled against the side of the tub, which releases some of the tension in his shoulders.

Not much, but some.

"Me. This. All of...this. You'd be better off with someone else. Anyone else. You might as well go off and find them. I know you didn't come--I'm sure you can find someone better than me."

This is the second time that John has told him to go have sex with someone else, and as worried as he is about John's health, he can't pretend it doesn't make him feel gross and cheap. "Why do you keep saying that? You know I don't care--you know that's not what I want."

"Because it's easier this way." John's voice is dull and flat. "Better for you to leave now because I'm never going to be able to give you the life you want. This future, the house, the family, the ten-year plan. I'll never have a ten-year plan, Alex. I can't talk about...about houses, about a _family_ because I don't have a fucking future and you might as well stop wasting your time with me and find someone who does. I can't be what you need--I'm useless to you."

That sick feeling comes back and Alex leans heavily against the door. He tries to slip his fingers underneath it, but only the tips fit through. "I don't care about any of that," he insists, pushing through the wet feeling in his throat. His heart is beating so hard against his ribs that he's surprised John can't hear it through the door. God, he needs to get in there. He needs to get in there before something happens to John. "John, baby, please. I'll give up the ten-year-plan, the future--I don't need any of that, I just need you. I'll throw it all away for you. Just tell me what you need. John, please--tell me what's wrong, tell me how I can help. You're all I care about. How can you not know that, how can you not believe it?"

He presses his forehead against the door and tries to swallow. He can feel the thrum of his blood underneath his skin, the flush starting at the back of his neck. He knows he's panicking--he knows he needs to stop before it overtakes him, but god, he needs to know that John is alright. 

"Please," he says hoarsely. "Please, please, please. Don't leave me here. Don't leave me alone."

John doesn't say anything, but Alex hears movement inside the bathroom. The door doesn't open or unlock, but John's fingers cover his own. Alex swallows back a wet noise of relief and lifts his finger tips to hook around John's. His heart is calming, his breathing is evening out, he wants to hold onto John, but this is okay for now. This is okay. 

"I love you," he says to the closed door. John doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move away, either.

*

Alex stays leaning against the door, his fingers tangled with John's, until he falls asleep there. He has no idea how it happens--he's keyed up and on edge, but after half an hour or so of huddling on the floor, his whole body gives out and he wakes up late in the night. He's not sure how he knows, but he does--there's a heavy silence, the kind that only comes when the rest of the world is asleep. He's become intimately familiar with it over the years.

John's fingers aren't holding his any longer, but a frantic peek under the door and Alex sees that he's fallen asleep as well, sprawled across the tile. The bathroom door is still locked, so he pushes his aching body to his feet and stumbles into their bedroom. His multi-tool is on the dresser, and taking the doorknob off the door is short work. The door swings easily open without the lock holding it in place, and Alex rushes over to John's side. He's still breathing, slow and even, and there's nothing wrong with him that Alex can see. He has to sit for a moment, letting that knowledge wash over him. There's nothing wrong with John, he's okay, he's fine. Everything is fine.

Or as fine as it ever gets these days, at least.

"Honey, we need to go to bed," Alex says, shaking John's shoulder, but he barely acknowledges it. "Baby, come on." He tries to lever John off the floor, but it's impossible--Alex isn't particularly strong to begin with, and John is heavy and motionless, curled in an awkward position. He tries twice more, but he's too fucking tired to keep going.

"Okay," Alex says to the silent room. He lowers himself down to the floor and lays down. "Okay. This is fine too." 

The tile is cold and hard and uncomfortable, but he wraps his arms around John and presses himself against his back, ignoring the way his body is groaning at the pressure on his bruises and scratches and aches. John is warm and he feels and smells so familiar that Alex's tired brain gets lost in it, remembering better days and better nights, dreaming of better times to come as he falls asleep again on the bathroom floor.  
They don't talk about it in the morning.

Of course they don't.

They don't talk about much of anything, to be fair. John is nearly silent from the time he stumbles up from the bathroom floor, offering Alex nods or headshakes or vague noises of assent and dissent. He takes a long shower that worries Alex less now that their bathroom door doesn't have a lock (Or a knob. He'll have to deal with that eventually.) and dresses mechanically while Alex pretends to put away laundry, watching John out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm ready to head to the Washingtons' whenever you are," Alex says, which earns him another nod and then an excruciatingly quiet car ride through the rainy, grey streets of Morristown. John doesn't even put on music, and even though the silence is fraying the very last of Alex's nerves, he doesn't put any on either.

He does use the drive to inspect John in relative secrecy. He's concentrating on driving, so he doesn't notice the way that Alex is watching him, taking in the deep circles under his red-rimmed eyes, the slump of his shoulders, the sallowness of his skin. His cheekbones seem more prominent than usual and abruptly, Alex tries to remember if John has been eating. Not as much as he normally does. Not as much as he should. He wonders how the fuck he can trick John into drinking a protein shake or actually sitting down for lunch and finishing all of it.

 _You didn't sign up to be John's mother_ , a voice in the back of his mind whispers, a sharp stab of resentment on its tail.

But John does shit like this for him all the time. John buys gummy bears and puts them in Alex's desk drawer, he announces things like, "Fuck, how did it get to be nine, let's get a goddamn pizza" to drag Alex out of his work, he prepares two cups of coffee and leaves one at Alex's desk when they're in the lab, he goes through their shared calendar and puts _buy groceries_ as a recurring event to remind them they can't live on take-out, nor can they afford to.

Alex does some of those things too, but much like he's trained his body to live on four hours of sleep, he's gotten pretty used to skipping meals out of necessity and distraction both. John, who actually sort of tries to stay in shape, is much more aware of their nutritional intake.

He'd hoped that realization would stamp out the sting of resentment still lingering in Alex's gut, but it's heartier than he thought.

John's still moving like he's underwater at the Washingtons' house. The dogs are anxiously running around him as he prepares their breakfast, but instead of cooing at them to be patient, it's as if he doesn't hear them. Alex lets them out into the backyard when it becomes clear that John isn't going to move any faster, but it's of little use--the dogs don't want to be out in the rain any more than Alex does. They do their business quickly, then return to the porch to shake themselves off and scramble back inside, just as John is finally putting down their food. John doesn't react to their scampering around him to get to their bowls, he just moves to the table and sits down, pillowing his head on his arms and closing his eyes. Alex lays his hand on John's back, but he doesn't react to that at all, either.

Nelson finishes his breakfast first and trots into the living room, and just as Alex is about to suggest that maybe they should get going, John gets up too. He moves out of the kitchen, but instead of grabbing his bag from the hall, he goes into the living room and sits down on the floor next to Nelson. He stays there only a moment before he shifts again, lying down this time. Nelson gets up and walks around and then resettles nestled against John. He licks John's face and nuzzles his chest and John puts his arm around him and they just...lie there.

Blue comes in a few minutes later and sniffs around the two of them before settling near, but not on top of, John's feet. He hardly seems to notice.

Alex watches them for a minute and then two and then five and then gives up. He retrieves his laptop from his bag and moves to sit on the couch and try and get some work done. He knows already that it's a fruitless endeavor--he looks up every minute or so to see if John has moved, staring silently at the tableau on the floor and wondering if there's something more he could be doing, should be doing. He should make John eat a meal, he should tell him he loves him, he should ask what's wrong, but if this is helping, who is Alex to put a stop to it?

Fuck, if this is helping, Alex will adopt the fucking dogs from Washington, lease be damned, and let them sleep on the bed every night. 

John gets up eventually. He doesn't say anything to Alex, but he wanders out of the room and down the hallway. Nelson follows him, but Blue just trots over to Alex and plops down on his feet instead. After a few minutes, there's a distant flush and then the quiet hum of the sink and then John is back, walking slowly into the living room and sitting next to Alex on the sofa, Nelson still on his heels.

"Ready to go?" Alex asks. He takes one of John's hands. John allows it at first, leaning against Alex, and then freezes. He turns his hand over and then slides his grip down so he's cradling Alex's wrist. He pulls it towards him for a closer look.

"Is that...did I do that to you?" he asks, touching the edge of the bruise on Alex's wrist with his thumb.

"It's not a big deal." Alex knows that's not an answer.

"Fuck," John whispers. "Alex...what else?" It's the fastest he's moved so far today, his fingers sliding up Alex's arm and pushing up the hem of his t-shirt. Alex's impulse is to pull away, but he's sure that will send the wrong message. He makes himself move carefully, taking both of John's hands in his own and then shifting slowly away.

"It doesn't matter," Alex says, squeezing his fingers. "You didn't hurt me, it's nothing worse than one of us usually ends up with when we get rowdy. I'm fine."

John isn't convinced.

"Let's go to work," Alex says. "Let's go get some work done--we've got a few more books to catalogue still, we have to send in our final bios and workshop description...let's go."

John gets up with extreme reluctance, but he still gets up, so that's probably a win. He collects his bag and keys, back to his earlier creeping pace, moving out towards the car one lingering step at a time. He waits for Alex to get in and buckle his seatbelt before starting the engine, but once it springs to life, he remains motionless.

"I never want to hurt you," he says eventually. "I wish I knew how to stop. Sometimes I think you'd be better off if you never met me at all."

"John, that's not true," Alex insists, but John just shifts the car into drive and pulls back onto the street. He doesn't say anything else until long after they arrive at the university.

* * *

John falls asleep at his desk twice over the course of the day. At least, Alex thinks he's asleep. He puts his head down and closes his eyes and maybe if Alex was more confident that talking to him would end well, he would tap him on the shoulder or ask him what's wrong. As it is, he knows he's unlikely to get a straight answer if he gets one at all, so he lets it go.

He lets it go like he's let so much of the past two weeks go. He ignores Burr's concerned looks and the voice in the back of his head that keeps insisting there must be something he can do and the heavy dread that's been hanging over him for the past few weeks and focuses instead on trying to get work done. They're behind on their conference planning, although not too far behind--their outline is done, the general structure of their slide deck is in place, once Alex sends in their bios and program information their paperwork will be up to date, and most of the financial stuff can't be done until Washington gets back. They're still not where Alex expected them to be by this point, and he's probably lucky they were so far ahead before all this shit with John started to take shape.

It might be best if Alex adjusts his expectations. Just for a little while.

He watches the clock, watches Lee and Burr coming and going. His goal is to get to an acceptable dinner time without any commentary from Burr or any provocation from Lee. Their lunch was late, so it's not until the minute hand clicks past seven that Alex can justify touching John's shoulder gently and saying, "Hey, dinner?"

John sighs. He turns slowly to look at Alex, shoulders bowed with exhaustion.

"Do you want to go to the bar?" he asks.

"Are--" Alex catches himself before he blurts out something like _are you fucking kidding me?_ "Are you sure? I...assumed you'd want to go home. Home is good for me."

"No," John says. "No, I want to go out. I want...I want...."

The room is quiet as John squeezes his eyes shut. He sighs again.

"I want to feel like a person," he finally says.

Alex has no idea what that's supposed to mean.

"Whatever you want, baby," Alex says quietly. He strokes John's hair and John leans into the touch. He's relieved that John isn't spurning physical affection today, at least.

They pack up slowly and then drive around the corner to the bar. It's late enough that the place is hopping, but Alex manages to wrangle them a high top in the corner. John disappears as soon as they've claimed their table and comes back with two beers. It looks like they'll be taking a Lyft home tonight.

"Do you want to get pizza?" he asks, and John shrugs, pulling himself up onto his chair. "Wings?"

"Sure," John says. "Whatever. I don't care." He sips his beer and rests his crossed arms on the table, tipping his head forward to lay on top of them.

Alex slides out of his chair and hesitates next to the table. "Are you sure you don't want to go home?"

"I don't know what I want," John mutters, and Alex, unable to scrape up a response, slowly leaves for the bar to put in a food order.

He gets wings and fries, even though the fries at the Frog are always too mushy for his tastes. He's relieved to see that John isn't slamming back his beer, at least. Maybe he'll even walk upright out of the bar all on his own.

They don't talk much while they're waiting for their food. John sits up once Alex is back, but he mostly plays with a spare coaster on the table and rubs his fingers against knicks and scars on the surface. Alex taps his fingers and checks his phone and tries to come up with half a dozen different conversation starters, but in the end he's relieved when the food comes and he has an excuse to avoid talking.

Alex keeps close count of the wings in the basket on their table. John eats precisely two, which is one for each beer he has. He's honestly just happy that John hasn't gone in for shots, yet. He's hoping this isn't a repeat of last week--for one thing, the idea of asking Burr for help _again_ is already exhausting. But John's drinking more slowly tonight, not that it matters with how little food is in his stomach. 

_You're not his mother,_ that voice in his head says again, but he does his best to ignore it. Thankfully, the beer just seems to be making John sleepier. His shoulders are slumping more and more as he nurses his drink and his eyelids are drooping.

"Baby, you look ready to crash," Alex says, fingers crossed beneath the table.

"I thought I might feel better," John murmurs. "I don't know what I thought. Maybe. I'm tired."

Most of that is nonsensical, but Alex latches on to what he can.

"I'm calling a car right now," he says, flipping through his apps rapidly, before John can protest. "Let's go home."

"Okay." He sways a little when he gets to his feet, but he's steady enough as they walk through the bar towards the exit. Alex keeps up a stream of mental praise that John is listening to his body tonight, that they're going home before things get out of control, that this isn't a repeat of their last night out at the bar.

He's so focused on watching the progress of their car--twelve minutes, fuck, the ride share options really get dire during the summer when the university is cleared out--that he walks right into John's back when he stops walking.

"You okay?" he asks, and then he hears it.

"The guy is so fucking full of himself, it's fucking impossible to work in his lab."

It's Charles Lee, perched on the edge of one of the patio tables, smoking a cigarette with three friends. Alex recognizes one of the other guys, Edwards, a fifth year parapsych grad student in Greene's lab, but the other two are strangers.

"Everything he does is right, even when it's not, even when it's dangerous. He'd rather get his students killed than admit he fucked up, and I'm sure it's going to happen one of these days. He's useless. He's riding on ten year old fame and not doing a fucking thing to earn that praise."

It probably says a lot about Alex's shifting priorities that his first thought isn't to _murder_ Lee, but a desperate hope that John doesn't do something stupid. Of course, his second thought is to murder Lee, so it's possible his definition of "stupid" is flexible.

"You're talking out your fucking ass, Lee," John spits, twisting away from Alex and back towards the patio. "It's not Washington's fault that you don't know shit and don't listen to him. You'd fuck up less if you weren't so fucking intent on proving him wrong."

"Oh, of course his little harem is here to defend him," Lee sneers. 

"This fucking conviction that sex is the only way to gain loyalty says a lot more about you than it says about us," Alex says, which makes one of Lee's buddies snort. Lee glares at him, but the guy just shrugs.

"He left _first years_ alone to supervise the lab for a month," Lee snaps. "He'll be lucky if you don't burn the whole fucking place down with your ineptitude."

"Which fucking one of us should have graduated years ago but can't get his shit together to get a _theory_ degree?" John slurs. "You don't even go out and do anything fucking worthwhile, all you have to fucking do is write a goddamn paper!" 

Lee jumps off the table and stomps over to John. "You wanna have a fucking go, Laurens? I'll wipe the floor with your pansy ass!"

Just as John starts to lurch forward, fist rising, someone clears their throat behind them.

"Now, I may not technically have jurisdiction here, but I would encourage you boys to refrain from beating the shit out of each other in front of me anyway," Lieutenant Lincoln says. 

John's arm falls back down to his side and he twists around, frowning at Lincoln. She's in uniform and escorting a very drunk white girl down the path from the front door, with another girl following them and wringing her hands. Drunk pick-up, then. Alex and John have been threatened with it a couple of times, but either Herc or Laf is usually sober enough to at least get them into a Lyft rather than leave them to be picked up by someone on campus after a call from Maggie.

"We were just on our way home," Alex says. He grabs John's t-shirt and tugs him back towards the parking lot. "And these assholes felt the need to pick a fight."

Lincoln gives him a look that makes it clear that she doesn't believe Lee picked the fight alone and, okay, technically John was the one who marched into their conversation, but Lee was the one who egged him on to turn it physical.

"Go home, boys," she tells them. "And remember what I said, Hamilton. I'm a phone call away." Then she turns a much less friendly glare on Lee and his friends. "And you'd better not use that language or that tone where I can hear it again, especially not on campus."

Lee rolls his eyes, and as much as Alex does kind of want John to just _punch him_ , he glances down at his phone and sees that their car has updated to eight minutes away and they still have to get all the way to the other side of the parking lot for pick up. Best, then, to get moving and not make things worse.

"Come on, baby," he says quietly to John. "Our Lyft'll be here in a minute, okay?"

John mutters something under his breath, but he lets Alex carefully lead his away from the patio, stumbling only a little as they trek slowly across the parking lot.

"I hate that guy," John mutters.

"Yeah, I do too," Alex says. "Fuck, he really deserves to have his face punched in."

"Next time," John says darkly, and Alex wonders if it makes him a bad person to hope that John's prediction comes true.


	13. Part Two: IV. you seem somehow like a lost and lonely child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Washingtons return, Lt. Lincoln proves to be an asset, and Alex tries to do what he does best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I don't have something happier for you when the world is on fire, my friends :(
> 
> I'm taking prompts over on tumblr, specifically around happy things, so feel free to over there and suggest some stuff. I'm at a work conference next week and will have oodles of time to work on them.
> 
> Warnings for this part:  
> \- Continued warning for homophobic slurs  
> \- Continued warning for suicidal ideation  
> \- And some low-key, mostly off-screen alcohol abuse  
> \- And continued talk of major depression an anxiety
> 
> Much gratitude to **a-classic-fool** and **weesaw** for their help. Apologies to everyone I was at brunch with on Sunday for the way I killed the conversation to start grilling Lisa on some issues I was having with the last couple chapters.

At the end of June, Alex was afraid that his time alone with John would fly and the Washingtons would be back what felt like moments after they left. The joke is on him, of course--these last weeks have dragged by, hitting every bump in the road and pulling them along, scraping against the concrete, the whole way. He's relieved when he realizes they'll be getting back at the end of the weekend, but he still spends those last two days tense and nervous, constantly checking the time.

It's not that he thinks everything will be magically solved if Washington is here, or even that he's ready to ask Washington for help. He can handle this, he knows he can, but he'll feel better once he has Washington as a safety net. Like a guardrail, to stop them if it gets too out of control.

It's not out of control yet. Alex is sure of it.

Miraculously, they make it through the weekend without any further drama or melancholy. It's not normal yet, still quiet and strained, but John doesn't object to meals and doesn't need prompting to leave the house. He does work at the lab and feeds the dogs and goes to sleep earlier than usual, but at least the sun is down and he's eaten dinner.

It feels a little weird not to be going to the Washingtons' place first thing on Monday morning. Despite not actually _caring_ about the dogs, Alex has to fight back a rush of panic when John turns towards the school instead. For the first time, he's almost glad about John's quiet distance, because otherwise he would definitely hear no end of the mocking over that flash of concern on his face.

Washington isn't in the lab yet when they arrive. Burr is there, working at the chem bench, and Lee's bag is at his workstation but Lee himself is absent.

"You'd think he'd want to be sitting at his desk, neck deep in work on GWash's first day back," Alex murmurs as he drops his own bag at his desk. "Wanna go to the coffeeshop before we get started?"

"Sure," John says.

"What was that about being at your desk when Washington gets back?" Burr asks without turning around.

"Were we fucking talking to you?" John snaps.

Alex tries to ignore the unnecessary venom. "Lee does the bare minimum and disappears. Washington has to literally kick us out some days. He'll probably rejoice when he doesn't see us at our desks."

"If you say so."

Alex ignores him and nudges John towards the door, following him out of the building and across campus to the coffeeshop.

There's a little more life on campus today than there has been for most of the summer. There are high schoolers running around in groups wearing matching t-shirts and more professors than usual. The next half of summer term must be starting--Alex has been living in the slow-motion time warp of John's mercurial moods for the past month, he's lost track of time completely.

The coffeeshop has a line, a scattering of adults and two clumps of matching high schoolers whispering amongst themselves. Alex regrets not just making coffee in the lab, but they're already on line and by the time they turn around, walk back, and make coffee, they'll probably have managed to get to the front of it.

"It's weird how busy campus is today," Alex says when the silence starts getting to him. John is standing close enough that their arms brush when they move forward, but he hasn't said anything since snapping at Burr in the lab.

"I guess," he murmurs now.

"Just, compared to how it's been," Alex says, because he can't seem to stop himself from drawing out this excruciating conversation.

"Got it," John says. He crosses his arms. Alex grinds the heel of his hand against his forehead in an attempt to stave off the inevitable headache.

They inch forward in line. After a few moments of quiet, John seems to come to some sort of decision. He uncrosses his arms and leans against Alex's shoulder, though he doesn't speak. Alex puts an arm around his shoulders and relaxes, just incrementally. 

When they finally reach the front of the line, Alex orders an iced coffee and a muffin.

"Small coffee," John adds, not looking up at the cashier.

"You should eat food," Alex says.

"I have food in the lab," John says, and he means he has Clif bars in the lab. It feels hypocritical to point that out after all of the mornings that Alex has forgone an actual breakfast for granola bars or gummy bears or whatever he started and didn't finish the night before at his desk, so he stays quiet. He'll give John half of his muffin if he has to.

It's an even longer wait to get their order, even though they didn't get anything fancy. Alex is tempted to march back behind the counter and get his own muffin and coffees, so he's a little testy when, fifteen minutes later, they're finally leaving the cafe, crossing back out into the blinding sunshine.

"--fucking back on campus today, so I've gotta be at my fucking desk all fucking day. Like it's impossible for me to work without someone breathing down my neck. I know he's used to having fucking children to look after in his lab, but I'm not some faggy infant who fucking needs supervision!"

Alex and John both freeze and turn, as one, to the patio table outside of the coffee shop. Of course Charles Lee is sitting there with his stupid friend Edwards. Ewan Edwards? Evan Edwards? Something like that.

"Sucks, man," Edwards says. "But at least you're almost done."

"Yeah, but I still have to have that cocksucker sign off on my fucking degree. I hate this shithole. I should have transferred to Princeton when I had the chance. This whole fucking department is just sycophantic assholes trying to suck Washington's dick while he sits back and makes them do all the work."

Alex knows that what he _should_ do is keep going back to the parapsych building and forget this conversation ever happened and keep counting down the days until Lee is fucking gone for good. Of course, he knows that even as he turns and starts marching back towards Lee.

John is already five steps ahead of him and his hands are shaking. His earlier lethargy has disappeared in a burst of rage.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he snaps at Lee.

"Speaking of those fucking fairies," Lee mutters, getting to his feet.

"Whatever, let's go," Edwards says, but John is already in their faces, on his toes to glare straight at them. 

"I asked you a fucking question, Lee," he spits out. "What the fuck did you just say about Washington?"

"Do you get off on knowing that everyone here knows you'll choke on dick to get ahead?" Lee leans over, just as Alex stops at John's elbow. "Or do you even need the credit? I bet you go down on your knees just for fun."

"Of course he does!" Alex blurts out before he can stop himself. "What a fucking stupid thing to say! That would be like me saying, 'I bet you put your penis in women's vaginas just because you enjoy it'!"

Edwards snorts and tugs Lee backwards, but Lee and John just stare at Alex in contempt (Lee) and exasperation (John). 

"Although," Alex adds as an afterthought, "we're not fucking Washington, that part is bullshit."

For a split second, the exasperation on John's face blends into the familiar affection that makes itself known when Alex is being a particular kind of pedant. It's shocking, how beautiful that look is to him, how foreign it feels, even though it disappears just as quickly and John is back to glaring at Lee.

"Don't fucking test me, Lee," John says. "You think I won't tear your throat out?"

"Yeah, because I know Washington told you not you and you're a good little lapdog, aren't you? Faggot."

"You wanna bet, you fucking prick?"

"Laurens, I know you're not about to do something against school rules."

All four of them freeze at Lincoln's interruption. That woman's timing is fucking incredible--Alex half-wonders if she just follows them around to keep them from getting into trouble, like some kind of sarcastic, exasperated fairy godmother.

Alex turns to look at her, standing behind them in the doorway of the coffeeshop, out of uniform and holding a large iced coffee. She's got oversized black plastic sunglasses on, but Alex can still tell she's raising her eyebrows at them in a cool challenge to see what happens if they pick a fight right in front of her, uniform or not.

"You're not on duty," Lee mutters, crossing his arms.

"I'm salaried, baby," she says. " _And_ I'm the head of the department, so I'm on duty when I say on I'm duty, my friend." She slides her sunglasses up to the top of her head and Alex was exactly right about her expression. "Watch yourselves."

Lee mutters something. Alex doesn't catch it, but John clearly does--he's halfway towards advancing on Lee again when Lincoln steps between them.

"Let's just go, Chuck," Edwards says, grabbing Lee's arm. "What does it fucking matter anyway? Don't waste your time on this shit."

"Listen to your friend, there, kiddo," Lincoln says, and though Alex thinks, for a moment, that Lee might lose it at 'kiddo,' he lets Edwards pull him away, muttering under his breath the whole time. Lincoln shakes her head and steps back from John and Alex isn't sure what to say.

"Sorry you saw that," he says, because he's not sure he's sorry it happened, exactly, but he probably should have taken a look around before letting John get ready to smack Lee around.

"Sorry you got caught, you mean," Lincoln says. She rolls her eyes and knocks her sunglasses back down onto her nose. "I'm on my way out and I'd really like to make it the rest of the way to my car without breaking up any fights, hey? So if you two could just fucking forget about that guy, I'd appreciate it."

"He's an asshole," John mutters. He's still staring after Lee.

"Yeah, he is," Lincoln says. "And as much as he probably needs someone to smack some sense into him, he also seems like the type to go running to daddy because a kid was mean to him, and I don't need to tell you that daddy's loaded."

She's not wrong and Alex is on the cusp on a rant about capitalism and the distribution of wealth when she adds, "Just forget about him, at least until I'm back on campus, yeah? I like my co-workers too much to want them to deal with you two."

"Yeah, yeah," Alex mumbles. "Whatever."

"A ringing endorsement," she says dryly. "See you boys later."

They watch her walk off and Alex sighs. It's not even ten a.m.--that's a lot of fucking hours to forget about Lee.

*

Much to Alex's surprise, however, they do manage to keep out of trouble and keep Charles Lee mostly off their mind. Washington is back in the lab by the time they arrive with their coffee, and the day is spent catching him up on things, catching up on their own work, and doing an inventory so they can make a supply order. By the time the subject of Lee _does_ come up again, it's much, much later that night. Alex and John are at the Washingtons' again, but this time they're not alone--Washington has fired up the grill for steaks and Mrs. W has put plate after plate of salad and french fries and corn on the cob and asparagus down in front of them. It feels a little extravagant, even for dinner at the Washingtons, but Alex isn't complaining. It's easily the best meal he's had in weeks, and it would be a warm, lovely, perfect evening if not for John's silence.

He's eaten, at least, and that's a relief, but he's hardly said two words since they arrived. He's looking exhausted again, like the fight with Lee this morning drained everything out of him. Alex caught the Washingtons exchanging A Look after asking John if he was feeling alright and getting a vague answer, but so far they haven't said anything else. Alex isn't sure how he'll respond if they do.

"I didn't have time to make anything for dessert, but George picked up some ice cream from the store," Mrs. Washington says once it's time to start clearing the table. "I know you boys like chocolate. Dear, can you get the coffee?"

"Of course," Washington says, and picks up some dishes to follow her into the kitchen. 

John rests his head on Alex's shoulder and closes his eyes, letting out one long, silent breath. Alex turns his head just enough to press his lips against John's forehead.

"You okay?" he asks, even though he knows what the answer will be.

"Tired."

The Washingtons are gone far too long to just be grabbing coffee and ice cream. Alex can't hear them, but he doesn't doubt they're talking about John, if not both of them. He wishes he had a good answer to the inevitable questions. He wishes he trusted that John won't lash out at them once they start asking.

"We'll be home soon," Alex says softly.

Washington appears first with the coffee carafe in one hand and four mugs in the other. He's halfway through pouring before Mrs. W follows, juggling four bowls of ice cream that she places in front of each of them. John sits up and murmurs his thanks to both of them. They exchange another Look.

"So, we've told you all about our trip," Mrs. W says. "How was your time here at home?"

"Fine," Alex says. He watches John put a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. "Quiet. We hung out with von Steuben's gang, catalogued your books, went to the Frog. The usual stuff."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you've been relaxing at least a little," Washington says. "You two could always stand to spend some more time outside of the lab. I'd hoped that with Gilbert being away and the addition of Mr. Lee, it might be easier to lure you out."

He can't help the face he makes at hearing Lee's name. He sees it reflected on John, who looks like his ice cream has suddenly gone bad.

"Still not getting along with Mr. Lee, I take it?" Mrs. Washington asks.

"He's, pardon my language, ma'am, a total asshole," Alex says.

"It's impossible to work with him!" John adds, more animated than he's been all night. "He just constantly complains and talks shit about Washington and us!"

"He's completely incapable of believing that we could be accomplished and competent on our own, he keeps _insisting_ that we must be having some kind of _affair_ with Washington for him to trust us alone for a month and for us to be good at our jobs!"

"And he wonders why he hasn't graduated yet!"

Alex has about fifteen more things he wants to complain about and he knows John does too, but Washington puts his mug down with the sort of finality that makes him shut his mouth.

"I understand working with him is difficult," Washington says. "And it's regrettable that he landed here for the summer. But he has and the summer is half over. He'll be moving on soon enough and, until then, we have to live with him."

"But he's dragging your name through the mud!" Alex insists. "He badmouths you to everyone who will listen!"

"He goes on rants on Facebook and Twitter all the fucking time," John adds, and Alex points at him and nods.

"Be that as it may," Washington says, "it shouldn't be your concern. I'm an adult and a graduate student gossiping about me is hardly the worst thing I've been through. I will remind him again to leave you both alone, but that only works if you leave _him_ alone."

"He started it!" Alex says.

"And you're not children, so it's up to you to end it," Washington says. He picks up his coffee again and takes a pointed sip. "I'll talk to him tomorrow. Please behave yourselves for another month, that's all I ask."

John mumbles something that Alex can't hear and looks down at his ice cream again, which is probably a good thing, given how volatile he's been about Lee lately. Not that Alex has been that much better. For a moment, he considers telling Washington about all the insults Lee has been flinging at _them_ , the homophobic slurs, the stupid shit mocking their queerness, like he's a high school bully. Alex isn't particularly bothered by them, especially compared to the way he acts like they're children who have no idea what they're doing. But the slurs are against the code of conduct--they could get Lee in real trouble, even if it does feel a little like tattling to a teacher.

He'll keep it in his back pocket for now, and maybe try to get any future encounters on tape. It's a good back-up plan if this escalates further.

"No more work," Mrs. W says firmly. "Tell me about your trip down the shore with Friedrich and his--" She pauses thoughtfully. "--young gentlemen," she says diplomatically.

"It was actually Molly Ludwig who invited us," Alex says quickly. He doesn't _think_ Mrs. Washington would imply anything untoward, but he'd like to be _very_ clear on the matter. "And it was fun. Right?" He elbows John, who looks up and gives Mrs. Washington a tired smile.

"It was great. I got Alex to go swimming and everything."

"Quite a feat indeed," Mrs. W says, biting back a smile. "I'm going to go get some more coffee and then you're going to tell us all about it."

And with that command, Lee is behind them again, at least for the time being.

* * *

Alex can't sleep.

At first, he convinces himself he has too much to do. Washington is back, and that means he has to be more productive than he has been the past few weeks. As more time passes and absolutely no work is done, he admits that he's avoiding John. John spent the day moody and distant--he slept in so late that Alex was positive it was going to be another one of those days where he didn't get out of bed at all, and he was all but silent during the hours they spent at the lab. He answered a couple questions that Washington asked him, but only managed nods and headshakes and shrugs for most of his interactions with Alex. When they got home at eight, he went right back to bed and he's been there ever since.

But even once Alex overcomes that dread low in his stomach that's been sitting like lead for weeks now, he still can't sleep. John is dead to the world next to him, curled up in a tight ball even in sleep and unmoving as Alex tosses and turns. Alex watches him for a few minutes, but that just adds to his unease. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling instead, his mind whipping around at a hundred miles an hour, playing out every interaction with John he's had over these past few weeks, everything he's said and done. He tries to untangle them, to find the secret code that will decrypt John's moods and problems, but there's too much--he can't concentrate on anything for too long before the worries start piling on, the concern, the stress. It's just all so _loud_. 

Normally, when his brain is too loud, he has John. John drives him around town with the radio on low or holds him until he falls back to sleep or sits up with him and tries to help him work through whatever is troubling him. In their old building, they'd go to the roof and sit on the bench in the little garden up there, staring out over the rest of town in the quiet of the night.

He doesn't even know if this building has roof access.

He rolls over again and covers his head with his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. He needs to sleep. He just needs to concentrate and sleep and he'll almost certainly feel better in the morning. Nothing will be _solved_ in the morning, but he'll have a better grip on it in the light of day. 

He doesn't know why he thinks that. He doesn't know why he assumes things will be better tomorrow when they haven't been better any other day since this bullshit started. He doesn't know why he thinks sleep will help, when all John does is sleep and things get worse every day by degrees. He doesn't know why he thought they'd be okay if they could make it until Washington got back, because Washington is here and nothing has changed. He doesn't know why he can't just accept the fact that this is life now--that he fell in love with a virtual stranger and threw all his chips in and it turns out he lost that gamble. This is his life now, forever. It's not going to change. It's never going to change.

Of all things, it's Upstairs that shakes him out of his anxiety spiral. An argument breaks out, getting louder and louder until they're stomping around so much that Alex can't concentrate on anything else. It gives him distance from his panic, space to breathe and remind himself that nothing has been lost yet.

It doesn't give him any room to concentrate, though, so once he's sure that John is still dead asleep despite the yelling, he gets out of bed, finds his flip-flops, and decides to find out whether this new building has roof access.

He takes his phone and his keys with him and locks the door behind him, just in case. He walks up each flight of stairs slowly, concentrating on each step to keep the rest of his thoughts at bay, counting them until he's gone up to thirty-six and he's abruptly met by a gate that says _Roof Access Restricted._

The gate is, however, unlocked and open.

The door at the top of the last flight of stairs is open, too, and Alex steps out onto the building's roof and into the cool night air. It's a very different roof from the one at their last place. For one thing, he's only about five stories up, compared to eleven at their old apartment. For another, while their old building had turned the roof into a little garden patio, this roof is just...a roof. It's flat and dirty and littered with stones and sticks and other debris. The tar is worn and cracked places, and there are a couple large appliances--maybe air conditioning units?--on the far side. 

There are also a couple of folding chairs, some milk crates arranged in a circle, and a heavy bucket that someone has been using as an ashtray. If he's breaking the rules by being up here, at least he knows he's not the only one.

He takes a seat on one of the milk crates and sighs, looking out into the night. The open space and cooler air have washed the hot and heavy weight of panic off of his skin, but the underlying truth of the situation is still there, the stubborn knowledge that he's going to go downstairs eventually and wake up in the morning next to someone who still won't articulate what's bothering him and is drifting further and further away with each passing minute. He has to believe that John isn't out of his reach yet, but he can't just sit around, waiting for him to spontaneously be well again.

_But that's exactly what you're doing_ , that cruel, quiet voice in the back of his mind points out. _Sitting on your ass while this person you're supposed to love spins out of control._

"I don't know what else to do," Alex murmurs out loud. 

His words get swallowed up by the quiet of the night, and he tips his head back and looks up at the stars. Even the stupid sky makes him think of John, of the tattoo on John's shoulder, of the afternoon they spent in the planetarium on Valentine's Day, of so many nights spent just like this, staring up into the sky while sitting side-by-side on the roof. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to center himself. 

His thoughts have been so disordered lately. He likes to think things out, jump fluidly from point to point, from task to task, but his brain has been in emergency mode these past few weeks, focused so intently on taking care of John in the moment that he hasn't had as much time as he would have liked to think through the whole problem. 

He walks himself through the sequence of events: John gets a voicemail from his father overnight and panics. John calls his father on the phone and speaks with him for hours. John comes out of that conversation shellshocked and quiet. John spends the next two weeks--christ, it's been exactly two weeks, now--out of control. He doesn't get out of bed some days and he drinks too much other days and he picks fights. He zones out. He murmurs self-deprecating nonsense to himself and actively tries to push Alex away. He cries when he thinks Alex can't hear him. He loses interest in every single other thing in his life. He barely engages in conversations. He occasionally gets sexually aggressive. He's incredibly reckless at work. He doesn't eat enough. He's constantly tired. He doesn't smile.

This all started with John's dad, Alex _knows it_. He wonders what John would do if Alex stole his phone and called Henry Laurens and demanded an explanation.

He's pretty sure the answer is "break up with him," so he puts that one in his back pocket for the foreseeable future. 

All of it is a flashing arrow pointing towards depression, but Alex knows that. He's seen John depressed. This is something else, this is a whole new level, he can't believe that this would just spontaneously _happen_ , especially with that phone call at the start. It was the phone call that caused this, but until Alex can crack into what that phone call was about, he doesn't know how to fix it.

That's what it all boils down to--he knows that John is depressed. He recognizes this behavior. He can theorize and strategize all that he wants, but there's no magical remedy to this. There's nothing he can _do_ except remind John every day that he's loved and try to pick up the pieces as quickly as he can while John falls apart in front of him.

He runs his hands through his hair and wishes he had stopped to grab an elastic on his way out. Not for the first time, he feels an ember of resentment glow deep in his chest. Why can't John just _talk about things_? Why is it always a fight, always a production to get him to just fucking tell Alex what's wrong? All Alex wants to do is help him and all he has to do is ask, but instead they're stuck in this infuriating, frightening stasis. He wishes he could strap John down and just make him _listen_. Just tell him, over and over, that he's safe and loved and cherished and that nothing that has happened or will happen can change that.

He wishes he had the skills or expertise to handle this. He wishes that anything he knew could help him chisel his way through John's bubble and get through to him. He can't investigate his way to the heart of this. He can't calculate it or research it. He can't write John better.

He blinks slowly and looks down at the phone in his hands.

He has, periodically over the past few months, written John...well, love letters. When John's been nervous or stressed, when he's done something particularly sweet, and on days that Alex just has too much love inside of him to keep quiet, he'll spend some of the hours after John goes to bed committing his feelings to the page. He writes long, sprawling emails, run-on sentences and overlong paragraphs. He doesn't let himself hold back and he keeps going until he's put down all of the things in his heart, or at least said what he wanted to say. 

John's always been so pleased he gets almost embarrassed--he can't read them when Alex is in the room without flushing and covering his face. When lamenting, once, that he couldn't do the same, he called them concrete. Something he can hold and look at and point to as proof of Alex's affections should anyone ever doubt it.

He's not sure that John would read one of them now, but if there was ever a time to create concrete evidence of his affection, this is it.

Alex slides open his phone and thumbs into his email, pulling up a blank message. He stares at the screen until it goes dim, then taps it back to full brightness, chewing on his lower lip. When the screen goes dim again, he sighs and taps into the message field.

_I don't know if you'll open this message, let alone read it, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't use every weapon in my arsenal to bring down this darkness lingering around you...._

He starts off slowly, tapping in one letter at a time as he tries to organize his thoughts. As the shape of what he wants to say becomes more solid in his mind, he goes faster, until finally he grunts in frustration and stands up from the milk crate. He needs a full keyboard for his fingers to keep up with his mind, so he heads back down to the apartment, making a bulleted list on his phone as he goes so he doesn't forget any of the points he wants to hit.

Upstairs is still watching television when he slips back into his apartment, but the stomping and shouting are over, thank god. He drops onto the couch and pulls out his laptop, opening it and waiting impatiently for the screen to wake up and his email to sync. Then he's back to writing, his fingers flying over the keys as he adds more and more to this plea for John to return to him.

He reads it over twice when he's finished, then lets the mouse hover over the "send" button for a moment before he clicks it.

The sky is fading from the darkness of late night into the bruised purple of very early morning. Alex closes his laptop and walks slowly back to the bedroom. John doesn't appear to have moved in his absence, still curled tight, forehead creased even in sleep. Alex strokes his hair and his cheek and then climbs into bed behind him to see if he can manage just a few moments of sleep.

*

The morning is quiet, but lacking the oppressive exhaustion of the morning before. Alex manages an hour or two of light sleep and when he comes up to John in the bathroom and embraces him from behind, he doesn't stiffen or flinch away.

"G'morning," Alex murmurs.

"Morning." 

Alex reaches up and strokes John's cheek, looking over his shoulder into the mirror. "You're so pale."

John meets his eyes in the mirror and gives him a weak smile. "Tired," he says.

The circles under his eyes are dark and deep, almost like bruises. They're bigger than Alex's, and Alex barely slept at all last night. John slept for almost twelve hours.

Alex presses a dry kiss to John's cheek. "The sooner we get to the lab, the sooner we can be done for the day," he says. It's nonsensical--there's nothing they _need_ to be doing right now. Their RA assignment for the summer is complete and anything else can be done from their apartment, but Alex likes the structure of going into the lab every day. John usually likes it too, and that aside, Alex is willing to cling to anything that might convince John to spend a few hours among the living instead of listlessly staring at the wall in bed.

They gather their belongings and head over to the university soon after. Alex watches John from the corner of his eye as they pack and then drive across town; he's looking for any acknowledgement, any indication that John has read the message he sent the night before. John's never been good at hiding his feelings and Alex is hoping that his reaction might be some kind of window into what's going on in his head right now. 

The lab is empty when they arrive. Washington's office light is on and the coffee pot is full, but his office is empty and Burr and Lee's computers haven't been booted up yet. They settle into their desks and Alex tries to be subtle as he watches John open his email inbox, following the movement on John's screen out of the corner of his eye. His message is still unread, and John navigates around it to delete some sales emails and open an email from Mattie. He is deliberately _not_ reading Alex's message, then. It's probably just because he doesn't want to do it in front of Alex, but it still twists something in Alex's gut--he poured his heart into that message, messy and bare and frantic. He wants John to see it, desperately.

He continues to steal glances at John's screen throughout the morning, but he doesn't open his email again before standing up with a thumb drive and grabbing a canister of film from the table next to him.

"I'm going to the photo lab," he says without looking at Alex.

"Cool," Alex says. "Let me know if you need anything. I'll text you when I go to get lunch?"

"Sure," John murmurs, and glances up briefly, then away again to rub his eyes. "Yeah, okay."

"Okay." 

He watches John leave the lab, clutching his phone in one hand and the film canister and flash drive in another, and wonders if it's too soon to send a follow-up email.

*

John's been gone for about fifteen minutes when Ben Walker sticks his head in the lab and zeroes in on Alex.

"Hey, Hamilton!" he calls out as he lopes over to Alex's desk. "Got a minute?"

"For what?" Alex asks warily.

"I'm trying to set up a dual scan to get some more environmental data for my poster and I can't nail the parameters to get what I need. Molly said you're good with environmentals and you haven't used the PluScan 4140 yet."

Molly knows him too well. He's been wanting to get his hands on this new multipurpose room scanner since it was first announced--he even tried to wheedle the company into sending Athenodorus a unit to field test, dropping unsubtle hints on his blog for months. He begged Washington to let them use some of the leftover equipment budget to get one for their lab at the end of the fiscal year, but apparently replacing the malfunctioning hood on the chem bench was more important. The argument that Burr is the only one that uses the chem bench for long enough stretches to have to worry about getting poisoned didn't fly, either.

"Where are you set up?" Alex asks.

"One of the media rooms in the library basement. It should only take like, what? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes at most?"

Alex glances at John's empty desk and then past Ben and out into the hallway. John will probably be in the photo lab for longer than thirty minutes, possibly even longer than forty-five. And even if he wasn't, what does that matter? Alex isn't John's mother or his keeper--it's not his job to hover and follow John around and make sure he's okay. He's allowed to do his own thing, work on his own projects. It's good, even--Alex hasn't really seen or hung out with anyone but John since Herc left, Burr dragging their asses home notwithstanding. 

"Sounds great," Alex forces himself to say. The smile almost comes easy after that, and Ben claps his shoulder.

"Awesome. Let's go."

*

Molly is in the library media room when they arrive. She's sitting on the desk in the front of the room, and she barely looks up from her cross stitch when they come in.

"Told you he'd be into it," she says, Alex assumes, to Ben.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Ben says.

"How did _you_ know?" Alex asks, even as he approaches the scanner and starts fiddling with the settings to get a feel for the redesign. 

"You mentioned something about it," Molly says vaguely, then, before he can think about that for more than a moment, "Where's John?"

Alex feels his shoulders stiffen. He tries to remain loose and casual and focuses intently on the buttons and switches in front of him. "Photo lab."

"Kinda hoped he'd be hanging around with you," Molly admits. She puts her cross stitch down and hops off the desk, crossing to join them where the scanner is set up. "He's cancelled our plans twice in the past couple weeks and he's been weird over text, when he bothers to respond at all. What's his deal?"

"He's been a little...under the weather," Alex says carefully. He remembers John's phone conversation with Lafayette and adds, "Just tired. He'll be fine, he's just tired."

Molly raises her eyebrows, but drops the subject. "Tell him to text me when he's feeling better."

"Yeah, sure," Alex says. "So, what are the parameters you need put into this thing?"

It's a messy deflection, but Ben dives right into his proposed experiment and Molly doesn't question him further. He's even able to push John to the back of his mind for a few minutes as he fiddles with the scanner and starts testing out different settings and filters, calling out suggestions and having Molly move furniture and equipment to cross reference the different types of scans. 

It's nice to be absorbed in work. It's nice to do something he enjoys without splitting his attention between work and fretting.

When the scan tests are done, Ben waves them off to play around with the data, so Molly and Alex walk back over to the parapsych building together. They're quiet and it verges on awkward, but Alex isn't good at this kind of small talk at the best of times--nice weather, what's new, watch any good movies, how are sports?--and he's too tired to fall into his usual ramble to fill the silence. Molly's hands are shoved into the pockets of her sundress, swishing the skirt back and forth as they walk. Her good humor from earlier is gone and she looks...anxious.

Alex doesn't know what to say. Molly is someone he considers a friend, but she's more John's friend than anything. They talk and have inside jokes and go places together, and while Alex likes Molly well enough, he can't say he really...knows her. Certainly not well enough to wade into her problems.

They enter the parapsych building, still quiet. The light outside of the photo lab is off and the door is open and Alex feels momentarily guilty for not leaving John a note, but before he can jog down to their lab and apologize, Molly stops outside of her own lab space.

"Seriously, tell John to text me?" she asks quietly. "I just...need to talk to him about some things. I need to talk to _anyone_ about some things, really, but I'd rather talk to him."

"Sure," Alex says, his eyes darting down the hall. "I will. Sorry he's been. You know." He shrugs and glances back at her.

"Not your fault," she says. "See you later, Ham."

She hasn't even ducked all the way into von Steuben's lab yet as Alex takes off down the hall and skids into Washington's. John's not at his desk, though--Lee and Burr are still at their computers and John's stuff is back at his station, but his computer is asleep and he's missing.

"Um." He clears his throat and tries to act casual. Lee ignores him, but Burr looks up. "Did John say where we was going?"

"He did not," Burr says. "He came back in about ten minutes ago and dropped off his things, then left again. I told him you had left for the library with Ben Walker and I assumed he was going to find you."

"He wasn't," Alex says. He knows he shouldn't panic--John pulled this disappearing act last week and he was fine--but it bubbles up and constricts around his heart anyway. "If he comes back, text me? And, um--" He pauses and blurts out the next part before he can think better of it. "--don't tell Washington, if he gets back before John?"

Burr's look is too complex for Alex to fully unpack it, but he nods and Alex drops his bag on the floor by his desk and then takes off.

He pulls out his phone as he rushes through the halls, peeking in each room as he passes. _Hey, baby, you ready for lunch? Where are you?_ Even if John is perfectly fine and sitting in the library he probably wouldn't text back within seconds, but each one that passes still fills Alex with more dread. There's a sickness curling in his gut that won't stop spreading and he squeezes his phone in his hand trying to center himself as he bursts back outside.

He checks the gym first, because never let it be said he doesn't learn from experience. It's more populated today, and John is nowhere to be found--not in the locker rooms, not in the weight room, not up on the track. The construction crew is back to work on the pool, but Alex still peers down into it, just to be sure. The library is his next stop--maybe John _did_ go to look for him, but they were already gone--but that's just as fruitless. He even goes so far as to hunt down John's old library boss, but she hasn't seen him in weeks.

"Don't panic," he murmurs aloud to himself. "This is fine, don't fucking panic." He repeats it like a mantra as he rushes up and down the paths, and only stutters when he finds himself in front of the administration building. The campus police office is in the basement.

This is stupid. An overreaction. But Lincoln told him he could ask for her help and she's been pretty chill so far and Alex needs to stop himself from having a panic attack. He's no use to John if he loses his shit.

He moves quietly through the administration building and down the steps to the campus police office. He hesitates outside of the door, then peers in through the little window. Lincoln is sitting at the desk, leaning over a stack of folders. That's good, at least--he's not sure what he would have done if someone else had been in the office this afternoon.

Lincoln glances up at the door and catches him hovering, gesturing for him to open the door before he can decide this is a terrible idea and shift out of the way.

"Hey," he says. He barely opens the door and doesn't step over the threshold, as if not going inside means this whole thing isn't as serious as he fears it is.

"Qué lo qué, papi?" she says. Alex catches the way she glances over his shoulders and behind him, sees the moment his problem dawns on her, all before he's even said a word.

"Have you...seen John?" He has to clear his throat in the middle to sound even halfway normal.

"No, I haven't." She sounds almost sad when she says it. Her expression doesn't really change, but something in her eyes goes soft as she gets to her feet and pushes her chair away. "But, I'm ready for a break, so I can help you look, if you want."

She says it so casually, so calmly--Alex isn't sure if she's doing that for his sake or if she really doesn't think it's a big deal. He's leaning towards the former and he should be mad at her for handling him with kid gloves, but his chest is so full and tight with fear that he doesn't have room for it.

Back in the early afternoon sunlight, Lincoln shields her eyes and looks out over the campus. 

"Where have you already checked?" she asks, still calm and level.

"Uh, the gym," Alex says. "The library. The parapsych building."

She nods. "You have my number?"

"Yeah," Alex murmurs.

"Take out your phone and send me a message so I have yours."

Alex's hands are shaking as he digs his phone out and then tries to use his thumbprint to unlock it. His lock screen is John, smiling and happy with one of the fucking dogs, and he has to turn away from it, giving in to type his PIN in manually. He fumbles over to messages and taps out, _This is Alex Hamilton_ , then hits send.

"I'm gonna check south campus--you check north campus. Call me if you find him and I'll call you if I find him, yeah?"

Alex nods silently and clutches his phone to his chest. That soft look returns to Lincoln's eyes.

"Hey," she says. "He's fine, hermanito."

"I know," Alex lies.

She regards him for a minute and then says, as gentle as he's ever heard her, "Is there a reason we should be worried?"

He knows the shape of what she's asking, but he can't make himself understand it. He can't let himself believe it's possible, because...because....

He can't let himself believe it's possible, so he shakes his head slowly. She watches him for a moment, lips pressed together thoughtfully, and then nods.

"I'll call you if I see him," she says, and then turns and heads towards the south side of campus. Alex closes his eyes, counts to five, and then goes in the opposite direction.

He tries to breathe evenly as he rushes across the north side of campus, ducking in and out of buildings, following his own methodical path. It's a waste of effort, of course--Alex is in poor shape at the best of times, and this is hardly the best of times. Jogging around campus, looking for John, trying to stop him before he....

He deeply, honestly, _truly_ does not believe the worst, the thing he won't name. The most logical part of him, the part that strips away sentiment, the part that has been reminding him, dispassionately, that John's behavior has been annoying and abysmal, doesn't believe it, and he clings to that for all he's worth. It doesn't stop his heart from hammering loudly in his ears, his breath from coming in pants, his palms from sweating in fear.

His phone rings when he's maybe two-thirds of the way through his search. He scrambles to answer it, his heart sinking when he sees it's not John, even though it _is_ Lincoln. She may, at least, have good news.

"Have you found him?" he pants breathlessly into the phone.

"I have." Something about Lincoln's tone makes him a little sick. "He's okay. I think. He's over at the Wright building."

The Wright building is the art building and it's about the furthest he can get from where he's currently standing. He's going to kill John. He's going to...he's going to find him and he's going to hold onto him and then he's going to _kill him_.

When he finally gets to the building, Lincoln is waiting by the door. She gestures for him to follow her inside and he limps towards her, panting, lungs burning, head spinning from his impromptu sprint across the university. She doesn't comment on the fact that he sounds like he's about to die from an asthma attack, just slowly crosses to the elevator and gestures for him to join her inside of it. She puts a key in the button panel, turns it all the way to the side, and then hits the 4R button. It's restricted access--the roof.

"He's fine," she repeats as Alex catches his breath. "No idea how he got up there, but he's just sitting on his phone."

Alex closes his eyes and leans into his exhaustion to avoid an embarrassingly emotional thank you.

The elevator, ancient and avoided at the best of times, lurches to 4R after what feels like an hour. It's nearly enough time for Alex to catch his breath, though the sight of John sitting cross-legged on the roof nearly steals it away from him all over again. He has to force himself forward, stumbling as he steps out of the elevator. He hears Lincoln step out behind him, but she doesn't follow as he picks his way across the roof towards John.

"John?" he manages to say. 

"Yeah," John says. He doesn't turn or otherwise acknowledge Alex, but he doesn't move away, so Alex keeps going and finally sits down next to him. He's near the edge, but not close enough to scare Alex, not yet. He's holding his phone between his hands and staring out at the tree line.

They sit in silence for a few moments. It's hot--the sun is beating down on them and they're surrounded by dusty black tar that's leeching up the heat. Alex would like to drink a gallon of water and shake some sense into John, but for the moment he's afraid to do anything but sit and try and figure out what the fuck to do next.

"Talk to me," he finally says, so soft he's afraid it will be swept up by the hum of the air conditioning units and the rustle of the breeze.

"Sometimes I think about video games," John says. Alex's fucking head hurts. "About...you fuck up and then you die and then you come back and you have another chance to start from scratch. An extra life. A do-over."

Now Alex's heart hurts.

"John...." 

"I know that's not how it works in real life," John continues. "I know that. I mean. Who really knows. Who can say, right? That's the whole point of what we do, isn't it? Trying to figure out what comes next. Trying to figure out where spirits are ultimately going and how it is they can get caught here. But it's so simple in video games. You fall on the spikes or you drown in the river and then there you are, back at the start, but this time you know where the spikes are. You know not to go down to the river." He laughs at that, sharp and humorless. "You know what you did wrong. And I think about it sometimes--what I did wrong. How I've hurt people. What I would change if I get the chance. If I'm here...if I'm here on this earth despite everything, it has to be for some reason, right? And maybe that's why. Maybe it's so I can keep track of the mistakes and know how to do it differently next time. And then I'll look at a residual haunting, something that's just...stuck here, in the same old rut, doing the same thing, and I think about how we always characterize spirits as on their way to someplace else. As not belonging here. But maybe that's where those spirits belong. Maybe they're just trying to fix a mistake, over and over again. And is that better or worse? Is it worth risking it to find out?"

Alex wants to blame his nausea on his jog around campus, but he knows better.

"I need you here," Alex says as steadily as he can.

"I know," John says. His elbows twitch outwards as he presses his phone hard between his palms and closes his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry."

He's not sure what John's sorry for. He doesn't want to think about it anymore than he has to. He's angry and he's scared and he's exhausted and he's thirsty and he's mortified that he dragged Lincoln into this and he's endlessly grateful that she found John for him. He pulls his knees up and rests his forehead on top of them.

"John, we can't keep doing this," he says.

"I'm sorry," John says again. "I needed to think. There were just...people everywhere."

They sit in quiet for another few moments.

"Are you hungry?" Alex finally asks.

"No."

"Well, I'm really fucking dehydrated and I'm sure you are, too." Alex doesn't nail the conversational tone he's aiming for, but he's not that far off, either. His hands have stopped shaking and he's no longer on the precipice of an anxiety attack. He pushes himself to his feet and then offers a hand to John, who takes it after a moment of hesitation. Their eyes meet as Alex helps him up. He looks so tired and so old and so scared and so resigned, and Alex is speechless. Instead of letting go of John, he pulls him closer and into a too-warm, too-sweaty hug.

John relaxes against him and runs his fingers through Alex's hair and soon Alex isn't sure who's holding who. Normally that thought gives him comfort--the secret romantic in him loves the idea that he and John share each other's loads, hold each other up, keep each other steady when they're not so steady themselves. Today, he can't shake the notion that what it really means is that neither of them has any idea what they're doing or how to get free of this awful cycle they're sinking into.

***

Alex is ready to go home by the time they wander back into the lab. Washington is in his office and barely spares them a glance, but Burr looks up as soon as they walk in and keeps looking until they sit down. As always, Alex can't tell what he's thinking, but he's too tired to worry about it. 

The afternoon is eerily silent in the lab; there's no chatting, no music, no quiet muttering as people work. Lee peels off not long into the afternoon and Washington leaves around four. Alex wants desperately to leave, but he's not sure why--it's not like he can escape this stormcloud, which isn't confined to his work, but follows him into his home and into his bed. A part of him thought that maybe their talk on the roof would release some of the anxiety and tension that tied Alex into knots while John was missing, but he still can't quite shake it. His shoulders are up around his ears and John still won't look at him.

"We should think about food," Alex finally says, once the silence feels as if it might suffocate him.

"I need a drink," John replies. He still won't look at Alex, and Alex is too tired to tell him a drink is the last thing he fucking needs.

So they go to the bar. And John gets his drink. And another, and another. John drinks until he can barely stand, until he gets into a scuffle with some asshole on the patio and Alex needs to haul him off before they do more than exchange a few half-hearted hits. John drinks until he loses all coherence and can't stand up and, once again, Burr has to help Alex drag him home, incoherent and mumbling, despondent and heavy.

"Thank you," Alex says once John is curled up next to the toilet and Burr is on his way back to his apartment.. "But I can't fucking deal with commentary tonight."

"Just be careful," Burr says, kindness and compassion dripping off of every syllable. Alex almost wishes he was being smug.

Back in the bathroom, the shower goes on. It's a relief to hear--at least John is sober enough to work the shower, which is more than he was the last time Burr had to drive him home. Alex collapses with exhaustion onto the couch and fights against the urge to just fall asleep right there. 

He loses the fight.

He's not sure how long he's out. The shower is still running, so at first he's confident he just drifted off for a minute, but when he looks at his phone it's after one. They got home not long after midnight.

Panic propels him off of the couch. He stumbles down the hall and pushes open the bathroom door, still sans doorknob. 

John isn't standing in the shower, but rather sitting in the tub with his arms pulling his knees against his chest and his head resting on top of them. Alex catches his breath, tries to force away his burst of adrenaline, and walks slowly over to the tub.

"John?" he asks quietly. He pulls the shower curtain back, but John doesn't move. Alex touches the top of his head and then pulls his hand back, surprised by how cold the water has gotten. John doesn't register the touch, or Alex kneeling down next to the tub and rubbing his back.

"John. Baby. It's time for bed."

No reaction, so Alex sighs and rubs his eyes and leans over the tub.

"Come on, angel," he murmurs, trying to get his arms underneath John's.

"Don't," John says dully. Alex is getting soaked, hovering halfway into the shower.

"Don't what?" Alex asks. When John is silent in response, Alex swallows his anger and despair and adds, "You've gotta give me some direction here, baby. You've gotta help me out, you've gotta tell me what to do. I don't know what to do. You need to tell me how to help you."

But John just tips his head forward and rests it on his knees. Alex sighs and stands up, shedding his shorts and then climbing into the tub behind John, still in his boxers and t-shirt. The water is right on the edge of painfully cold and the tub is so small that it's a tight fit. He wraps his arms around John and rests his head at the nape of John's neck.

They can't keep going on like this. He needs to tell someone. He needs help.


	14. Part Two: V. i will hide what you want hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex puts off talking to Washington and things between John and Charles Lee come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Thanks to those of you still hanging in there. I got a little caught up on comments and I'm hoping to catch the rest of the way up this week, but I do really, really appreciate every one of them. It's literally the only way I know there are still people out there.
> 
> (But, as I said before, I understand wanting to take a break because the world is on fire, so don't stress if you're NOT reading right now!)
> 
> We have just this chapter and one more chapter where everything is the worst before we start to upswing, so hang in there!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Continued suicidal ideation  
> \- Continued homophobic slurs  
> \- Physical violence
> 
> Thanks, as always, to **weesaw** , and extra thanks on this one for **a-classic-fool** for helping me figure out a plot wrinkle!

Alex has every intention of talking to Washington about what's going on Thursday morning, but he wakes up grumpy and groggy after too few hours of sleep snatched late in the night when John finally passed out in bed. They're late getting to the lab and Washington is already in a meeting by the time they arrive. He heads home immediately after the meeting, and while Alex knows he could call or text or email, his resolve to ask for help slips away with every passing moment. They're awake in the clear light of morning. John is, of course, acting like nothing is wrong, Burr and Lee are both lurking, and it just seems easier not to say anything at all. It doesn't seem nearly as dire any longer--a silly thing to bother Washington with, an embarrassing thing to bother Washington with. John is Alex's family, he's Alex's responsibility. Alex isn't a child and he shouldn't go running to an adult every time something difficult happens in his life. He's made it this far taking care of himself and there's no reason he can't take care of this, either.

Alex has taken to gauging their days by John's moods, and he's in a foul one when they get out of bed on Friday morning. Alex wonders if he's slept at all--he was tossing and turning when Alex came to bed and was still restless when Alex eventually fell asleep. Regardless, he's prickly from the moment they leave the house and his mood doesn't get less caustic as the day goes on. Alex is somewhat safe from his ire, buthe lashes out at a kid in the parking lot and at Burr and at a tech at a photo lab he's calling for an estimate and at the kid in front of them in line for lunch. He nearly falls asleep at his desk twice, and Alex is fairly certain that he _is_ asleep when he disappears into the photo lab for an hour to do a procedure that should take fifteen minutes.

"He hasn't been feeling great this week," he mutters to Washington after John curses at his laptop out of nowhere and then storms out of the room. "He didn't get any sleep last night. I'll talk to him."

"I know I don't have to tell you that you're free to go home if it would help," Washington says. "I won't insist on it yet, but make him get some sleep tonight. And, Hamilton?"

Alex, half-turned back to his computer already, freezes and looks back to Washington. "I hope you know, if there's something going on that you need to talk about, you can come to me."

Alex nods slowly, words stuck in his throat.

"That's all," Washington says, waving Alex back to his desk. "Make sure Laurens sleeps."

"I will," Alex says quickly, and hopes to god he isn't lying.

He spends the rest of the day hypervigilant, hoping to god that no one else crosses their path and pushes John too far--especially, god forbid, Lee. Alex would love to see John wipe the floor with the guy anywhere else, but he has a feeling that doing it in front of Washington would not end well for any involved party.

"Do you want to pick up take-out on the way home?" Alex asks. They have food at home and he hadn't really planned on eating out tonight, but their budget can handle it and it's the easiest way he can think of to lure John towards food and home simultaneously.

John frowns thoughtfully and Alex thinks that his ploy may have worked if Molly Ludwig, Queen of Unfortunate Timing, hadn't walked in at that moment.

"Where have you guys been?" she asks, walking briskly across the lab. She drops into Lee's chair and pushes herself over towards them, poking John lightly with one finger once she's in range. "And why haven't you returned any of my texts? I know you're a shitty texter, but jeez, Laurens."

"Busy," John murmurs. At least he's not snapping at her. "Tired. Sorry."

"No big deal," she says. "I just miss you nerds. Ponce and Ponter are driving me crazy and every time I try to hang out with Jamika she either spends the entire time ranting about what an asshole her boyfriend is or she cancels so she can make up from some fight with him. I would not be shocked if that relationship is no longer intact by the start of the next semester."

Alex hums absently. He really could care less if Jamika McHenry and her boyfriend break up. In fact, the only thing he cares about in this moment is extracting himself from his conversation and bringing John home before he inadvertently shits all over one of the few good relationships he has at the moment.

"We were actually about to head out," Alex says.

And Molly--fucking MIT genius, generally socially aware, thoughtful Molly--is somehow completely oblivious. "Oh, cool, sorry. You headed to the Frog?"

She gets it a beat too late. Just as she starts to say, "Oh, actually, you look wiped, Laurens, you're probably heading home," John says, "Sure."

"Really?" she asks. She squints at him. "Your eyebags rival Ham's right now."

"You know what they say about couples," Alex says. "Anyway, I think we were just going to head home."

"No, we can go out for a little while," John says.

"It's okay if you'd rather not," Molly insists. "We can catch up this weekend--do brunch or something? I think the place in Denville is doing those cinnamon chip pancakes if you're up for a drive."

"We'll see," John says vaguely. "But tonight is fine."

"I...kind of wanted to head home," Alex says. He hasn't tried this tactic yet. Sometimes the easiest way to trick John into doing something for himself is to convince him it's actually Alex he's doing it for.

"I can drop you if you want," John says. He turns from both of them and starts powering down his laptop.

"No," Alex says slowly. "As long as we won't be long, that's fine."

John glances back at Molly. "You ready now?"

"I...guess?" Molly says. She looks beseechingly at Alex, just a quick glance, and then says, "If you're really sure."

"Positive," John says. He even manages a smile that's not a bad approximation of his regular one. It's enough to fool Molly--Alex can see the way her posture relaxes. All of that tension just shifts from her to Alex, though. His shoulders are up around his ears. He has a bad feeling about this.

If John or Molly notice Alex's wariness, neither of them mention it. They arrive at the bar and grab a table and get sent some wings on the house via Maggie. John is laughing and smiling as he chats with Molly and Alex wishes he could trust that meant the night was going to go well. He can see the foul mood lingering beneath John's skin, though, trace it in the way his comments are just a little more vicious than usual, the way his frowns are just a little bit sharper. He wants to get John out of the bar and back home, but he's not sure the best way to broach the subject if he doesn't want to be ignored or scoffed at or snapped at.

He sees his opening when Molly gets down from the table to go talk to Maggie about something at the bar. Their table goes uncharacteristically silent, John picking at the label on his beer bottle and Alex keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. Molly takes a seat at the bar, clearly intending to be up there for more than a minute or two, and Alex turns to John and says, "I'm really wiped."

It's a risk. There's a good chance John will blow him off. But instead of rolling his eyes, he looks over to the bar where Molly is sitting and sighs.

"I guess she's gonna be there a while," he says.

"I'm pretty sure you're right," Alex says.

John looks at her for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. He drains his drink and looks back to Alex. "Why don't we have one more drink and then head home?"

Alex sags against the table with relief. Another drink will only be John's third and on a full stomach, at that.

"That sounds great," Alex says honestly, and grins. John grins back--it's small and tired, but a real smile that makes Alex's heart squeeze in his chest.

John goes up to the bar and orders their next round, stopping to tell Molly their plan. She waves him off cheerfully, which is another relief--Alex isn't sure how he would have handled things if Molly had begged them to stay longer. Alex checks the time as John walks back to the table. He can probably get away with limiting this last round to fifteen minutes. He opens up the Lyft app and puts in their pick-up location and address, ready to hit the "request ride" button the moment John finishes his drink.

It takes more than fifteen minutes, in the end. John drinks slowly, and he seems to get quieter and turn inward as he drinks, that flash of his usual good humor completely dissipated. Alex's eyes flit back and forth between John's glass and his phone and finally, when there's nothing but a thin amber film clinging to the bottom of John's glass, he says, "Do you want to go?"

John is quiet and then glances up at Alex, frowning.

"I guess," he says. "I guess, it--it doesn't matter. What does it matter, what changes?"

Alex is frozen in the act of picking up his phone. "...I'm not sure I follow."

"Nothing," John says. "Just...nothing. Let's go home. It doesn't matter. Nothing does."

He gets down from his chair and starts for the door and Alex has to rush to follow him, holding his phone against his chest as he weaves through the crowd to keep up with John, who's moving much more quickly than Alex would have guessed given his mood and the amount he's had to drink. Alex finally catches up with him near the door.

"Do you want me to call a car?" he asks. 

John pushes the door open and they're surrounded by quiet, the sound cutting out as the door slams shut behind Alex.

Or, most of the sound.

"You should be buying me drinks for surviving this fucking week with that fucking fascist and his league of cocksuckers."

Of course it's fucking Lee, because god for-fucking-bid they get an evening off from that asshole.

"You need to seriously chill." And that's Edwards. It only takes Alex a moment to spot them, lounging at one of the patio tables near the door. It takes John the same amount of time--Alex can tell from how still John goes next to him.

Lee sees them, too. He frowns first, then sneers. "Are you faggots fucking summoned the moment people try to be honest about Washington? Do you fucking follow people around just to nose into their shit? God forbid they warn anyone about what a prick your precious mentor is."

On a normal day, Alex would absolutely be itching to punch Lee in the face, or at least encouraging John to do it. Something feels off tonight, though. There's something in the energy between them that's almost foreboding. Alex's not sure why, but he knows that if someone makes a move, this isn't going to be the regular sort of shit that they get into with drunk skeptics and assholes when they've had one too many.

"Fuck off," John growls.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You that desperate to see my dick, fag?"

John closes his eyes and takes a breath and for a moment, Alex thinks he's going to walk away. He's going to turn around and march away and into the parking lot, leave the slurs hanging in the air and get the fuck out of here.

It's just that, though--a moment. Between one breath and the next, John is done hesitating and is whirling around, fist first. Alex pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course there's going to be a fight. He just hopes it's quick.

John's first blow glances off of Lee's cheekbone and Lee, enraged, throws himself bodily at John. And then John hits him again. And suddenly, Alex can tell this isn't going to be like the other fights that John picks at the bar. This isn't a scuffle--John's going for blood, and Lee is meeting him blow for blow.

"John!" Alex shouts, but he's already too late--people have taken notice and are peering out the windows and wandering over from the other side of the patio. Alex races up the steps just as Lee's fist hits John's face, slamming into his cheekbone. "John!" he shouts again, more frantic this time. 

He doesn't know what to do. Lee's friend, Edwards, looks as stricken as Alex feels.

"Man, come on!" he shouts. "This is a shitty idea, Chuck!"

But Lee's just as intent on drawing blood as John, and they hit the floor, sending a patio chair that John tries to use as leverage flying into the railing. Lee lands on top of John and quickly uses his position to get a few more blows in, even as Edwards is trying to drag him away. There's blood on his fist, and it both turns Alex's stomach and spurs him into action.

"Stop!" he shouts, and stumbles towards the brawl. Edwards is trying to yank Lee away and Alex reaches for John's arm, but John pulls out of his grip, just as Lee struggles free of Edwards and then they're fighting again, rolling around on the patio and slamming each other into the railing, the ground, the side of the building. There's a sizable following watching them, now, and suddenly Burr is at his elbow, looking surprisingly concerned for someone who works hard to keep his expression as blank as possible at all times.

"What the hell is he thinking?" he mutters as John and Lee manage to get back on their feet. Alex ignores him and tries to wade back into the fray.

"John, stop!" he shouts again, and again John pulls his arm out of Alex's grasp, this time to punch Lee in the stomach. He doubles over, falling back to the ground, and kicks John's legs out from under him on his way down. John hits the wooden floor of the patio hard, his head bouncing off of the boards. He's dazed for a moment, and Lee uses that to his advantage, pinning him to the ground and getting another punch in before John throws him off.

The crowd on the patio keeps growing. People have their phones out and trained on the fight, drunkenly whooping and cheering them on, even as Edwards, Alex, and now Burr struggle to break it up. People are pressed against the windows and Alex sees Maggie on the phone inside, glaring at the scene as she shouts something into the phone handset then slams it back in the cradle next to the bar.

The cops. She's calling the cops.

Lee and John are still tumbling over each other, exchanging blows and swearing loudly through blood and bruises. Alex has never felt so helpless, and he's on autopilot as he pulls out his own phone and using shaking fingers to open his contacts and select a number, mumbling a prayer under his breath as it rings and rings and finally, Lincoln picks up on the other end.

"Hamilton, don't tell me you're involved in the bar fight I just heard over the scanner," she says.

"John," he says quickly. "It's John, it's...bad. It's serious. I don't--"

"I'm already on my way," she promises him, and then hangs up before he can say anything further.

Fuck, but he hopes she gets here before the cops. Alex doesn't want to think about what happens if the local cops show up and arrest John.

The fight hasn't calmed at all in the minute he took to make that call. They're both back on their feet and it's hard to tell who has the upperhand--both of them have open gashes and blood trickling down their faces. John has blood dribbling out of his mouth and Alex, once again, throws himself into the melee to try and break it up.

"You're going to get yourself killed!" Burr shouts, trying to get between them as Edwards and Alex struggle to pull Lee and John apart. "Both of you, stop!"

Lee throws an elbow, knocking the wind out of Edwards, then shoves Burr aside to get back at John.

"Watch out!" John shouts, and shakes Alex off to meet Lee halfway, right before he would have hit them and sent both of them tumbling over the railing and five feet down into the bushes below the patio. "Don't you fucking _touch him!_ " John snaps before shoving Lee backwards, but Lee grabs his shirt and then they're back on the ground, swinging and kicking at each other as sirens start to sound in the background. Alex and Edwards look at each other, a frozen moment of fear and commiseration as the sirens get closer and John and Lee tumble across the patio and then down the fucking stairs. Alex's heart leaps into his throat before he sees John jump back up to his feet and throw another punch towards Lee's face as he stands. Lee ducks and punches John in the gut and that's when the MUNJ cruiser pulls into the parking lot with two city cruisers not far behind it.

Lincoln is out of the car in seconds and bellows, "That's enough!" in a tone that Alex has never heard her use before. It's commanding and sharp and it feels like everyone freezes--Alex, sure, but also Lee and John and the mass of people crowding the patio and filming the fight on their phones. She grabs Lee and John both by the upper arm and forces them as far away from each other as possible, just as the other cars park and the uniformed officers jump out. There are four of them--a young white guy, a white woman, an older white guy, and a black guy, all of them already annoyed.

"Who called the cops?" the older white guy asks, and the few people in the crowd who deign to respond shrug. Burr is the one who points up at the bar.

"The bartender, I think," he says, and the older white cop jogs past them, the crowd parting for him as he heads towards the door. The crowd has already begun to disperse, people headed to their cars and taking surreptitious routes around the patio to get over to the bus stop for the campus shuttle. Alex stands, motionless, unsure of what he can do for John, how he can help him as two cops descend on him and Lee and Lincoln to form a tight huddle.

He watches the whole thing in a daze. Part of him wants to march over there and make sure they're getting the whole story, all the background on the ways Lee has been out to get them for months. Part of him wants to grab John and make a run for it, even though he knows there's no way that ends well. Part of him wants to take the blame, wants to do something-- _anything_ \--to shield John from this when he already has some much haunting him. All of him wants to _do something_ , but he stays there, in motionless silence, until the huddle breaks and Lincoln comes over to him.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asks quietly. Alex can't keeps his eyes off of John, being questioned by the city cops twenty feet away, looking sullen and exhausted.

"Lee was...being a shit," Alex murmurs. "Saying stupid shit about Washington. Stupid homophobic shit. You know what he's like. He was taunting us--taunting John, I think. They almost got into it a couple times this week. I think he was baiting him."

"I get it," Lincoln says. "I'd be pissed too. But you know I need to ask this--and please be up front with me, papi, there are four dozen other witnesses--who threw the first punch?"

Alex squeezes his eyes shut. What's the use in lying? "John," he whispers.

"I had a feeling," she says on a sigh. "Okay, I'm gonna go over there and see if I can't do some damage control. My bet is the city cops want nothing to do with this, but I know Lee's family's got money, so who knows how this is going to play out. Hang tight, kid."

Alex almost wants to laugh. Like he has anywhere else to go.

He sits heavily on the patio steps and watches the scene play out around him. A city cop is talking to some of the bystanders. Another one is talking to Edwards and then waves him off. He goes over to Lee and grabs his shoulder, only to have Lee flinch out of his grip and shove him away. Edwards rolls his eyes and shakes his head and Alex, once again, wonders why Edwards is hanging out with a guy like Lee. He seems halfway decent.

Burr comes over and leans against the railing near Alex. He's not close enough to touch, but it's clear he means to be there for support which is...so fucked up. He doesn't understand how Burr, who spends half his time being openly annoyed with and disdainful of Alex and John, is exerting so much effort to help them through whatever this is.

_Maybe you should take him up on the offer,_ the dispassionate, logical part of him murmurs treacherously. _It's not like he hasn't already seen what a fucking dumpster fire you both are right now. How much worse can it get?_

But there's a difference between being a mess and being vulnerable to someone else. John--mute about his feelings and private to a fault about his problems--wouldn't stand for being vulnerable in front of Burr.

Over by the squad cars, Lincoln is talking to the city cops now. John is next to her, staring at his shoes, while Lee is standing with the city cops and angrily snapping something, pointing menacingly at John. One of the city cops looks like he's eager to rough up some punk kid for stepping out of line, but Lincoln waves Lee off and says something else to them, pointing at John and then at Lee and then gesturing back towards where Alex and Burr are waiting. The city cops glance over at them and say something else to Lincoln. The angry young white cop looks mulish as his older companion waves dismissively at Lincoln and John, the woman and the black dude already heading back towards their car. Lee crosses his arms and glares at Lincoln and John, but Lincoln ignores him and leads John over to her car, opening the back door for him and then closing it firmly once he's inside. She looks sadly at him through the window, shaking her head, and then turns and heads over to where Alex is sitting. He jumps to his feet to meet her, hands squeezed into worried fists in his pockets.

"What's happening? Where are you taking him?" he asks, though he knows the answer and at least it's better than the alternative.

"Back to campus. Go home, Hamilton," Lincoln says, not unkindly. "I'll dry him out and make sure he's okay and you can pick him up tomorrow morning. You know Lee's gonna raise shit, and your boy's better off with me than in the city lock-up. He'll be alright."

Alex stares dubiously at the back of Lincoln's car. John's head is bowed and he's staring at his lap, but Alex can still see the smears of blood on his face. He thinks he might be sick.

"Fuck," he whispers.

Beside him, Burr puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'll take him home," he says quietly. "What time will Laurens be free to go tomorrow morning?"

Lincoln shrugs. "Seven?"

"I'll bring Hamilton over to pick him up around then," Burr says. He pulls gently on Alex's shoulder. "Come on."

Alex goes with him. He doesn't know what else to do.

Burr has to move a pile of stuff from the floor of the passenger seat, but once it's clear, Alex robotically sits inside and secures his seatbelt. When Burr starts the engine, a podcast comes blasting through the speakers and he reaches out quickly to turn it off, but Alex almost wishes he would leave it blaring. It's more awkward in the quiet, more obvious that Alex is out of excuses and too fucking tired to think up any new ones.

"Why are you being so nice to us?" he says instead, without looking up. "You don't even like us."

Burr is quiet for a moment.

"I don't _dis_ like you," is what he finally says. 

Alex snorts. "That's the most fucking Burr answer possible."

"I don't dislike you," Burr repeats. "And I respect you. Both of you. You're smart and you're good investigators." He pauses. "Usually. And even if I didn't like you, I wouldn't want any harm to come to you. Laurens is brilliant and he's speeding towards a brick wall. You're so focused on trying to stop him that you don't see it coming either."

Alex closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm tired."

Burr just hums in response, which is the Burr version of smugly pointing out that he's won this argument, probably. Alex sighs and tips his head back against the seat, closing his eyes.

They travel the rest of the way to Alex's apartment in silence. Burr pulls up in front of the lobby and unlocks the doors.

"Get some sleep, Hamilton," he says. 

"Sure. Thanks," Alex mutters, even though he knows he won't.

* * *

Campus is quiet on Saturday mornings during the school year. On this sunny summer morning, Alex doesn't see a single other soul as Burr drives him over to campus police. His footsteps on the sidewalk and then in the hallways echo eerily and Alex struggles with the warring urges to be as quiet as possible to keep it that way and to make as much noise as he can muster to banish the silence.

The office is empty except for Lincoln, who's sitting at her desk tapping idly at her computer. She looks up at Alex with a half-smile when he opens the door.

"Hey, Hamilton," she says. "You know, I've gotta say, Laurens isn't nearly as fun on his own."

Alex can't even force a smile. "Can I see him?"

"You can have him, papi," she says. She gets up and stretches, grabbing a keyring from behind the desk. "I managed to snatch the case from city police and talked Lee out of pressing charges. He's still filing a complaint and your boy might be facing disciplinary charges from the school depending how it goes, but it all happened off campus, so it's a little murky and we're gonna use that to our advantage, yeah?"

Alex nods numbly. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, it's keeping him from thanking her, from telling her how much that means, how important that is, how badly he was afraid of John losing his funding and getting kicked out.

They go down the hall to the holding rooms. There might be something closer to real cells somewhere in the building, but Alex has never seen them. These holding rooms are more familiar--the same pale green painted cinder blocks that make up the walls of most of the building, with a cot and a chair and a door with a large glass window. Alex and John have dried out in these holding cells a handful of times over the past year, usually shepherded in by a vaguely amused Lt. Lincoln, and spent the night dozing against each other until they sobered up.

Today, John isn't embarrassed or hungover or smugly pleased with the circumstances that landed him here like he's been in the past. He's sitting on the cot, leaning against the wall. His glare is still sharp and almost foreign on his face--Alex is used to his anger being fleeting or comical, not red hot like this. Even when he picks fights and loses his cool around skeptics, he's never angry like this, never angry so deeply that it changes him.

Lincoln opens the door and steps aside, gesturing for John to step out of the room. "Your boy's springing you. You're his problem now, chuckles."

John glares at her and stomps past, stomps past Alex, too, and back down the hall towards the office. Lincoln raises her eyebrows at Alex, who hopes he looks calm and not like he's going to puke, not like he barely recognizes his boyfriend.

"Barrel of laughs, your sweetie," Lincoln says. The sarcasm is only part of it--she says it almost like a question, like she can see that something's wrong, like after weeks of saving his ass, she's ready for an explanation.

"Let's just--let me sign whatever I need to sign," Alex says, swallowing a sigh.

"If you need--"

Alex doesn't think he can stand to listen to whatever well-meaning thing she thinks he needs without screaming. "I just need to sign whatever I need to sign."

Lincoln scrutinizes him for a moment and then sighs and heads back towards the office. Alex follows and swallows his frustration. He just needs to get them home. If he can get them home, they can talk and--

He just needs to get them home.

John is waiting by the desk. He seems less angry, now, just sullen and exhausted. He leans against the desk with his arms crossed, staring down at the floor. He doesn't move to touch Alex or look at him or speak to him, just stands there while Alex signs some forms and accepts the bag with John's phone and wallet and belt.

"As cute as your face is, I'd like to go the rest of the summer without seeing it, Laurens," Lincoln says. John doesn't even look up to acknowledge her. He takes the bag from Alex and replaces his belt and shoves his phone and wallet back into his pockets. He doesn't even turn his phone on. He brushes past Alex and heads out into the hall. Alex just looks helplessly at Lincoln and shrugs.

"Thanks, Lieutenant," he mutters.

"No problem, papi. Chin up--he's a good kid, he'll get his head on straight."

Alex hopes that if he believes it hard enough, it'll be true.

He follows John out into the hallway and nearly runs into him--he had expected John to keep going, to maybe be halfway out of the building or maybe halfway to the shuttle, but he's standing just five or six feet past the door. He's still and quiet and pale and when he looks up, all of the anger and sullenness of earlier is gone. He just looks...lost. And so fucking young that it breaks Alex's heart.

"Alex, I'm so tired," he says.

And then he bursts into tears.

Alex has seen John cry before, just a handful of times. Usually when they've been fighting or he's been angry or upset. Usually it's just a trickle of tears and some sniffles he does his best to cover up. Usually he's self-conscious. This is none of those things--this is big, heaving sobs. This is John shaking and giving himself over to this wave of emotion. He's hysterical and he's not trying to hide it and Alex has to fight back the urge to follow him into hysterics.

Instead, he steps forward and pulls John into his arms. It's all he can think to do, something to offer whatever comfort he can as he tries to figure out how to make it better. He has to be able to make it better, there has to be something to make it better, he needs to have something--if he's so fucking smart, why can't he help the person he loves the most?

"It's okay--John, baby, it's okay," he says, stroking John's hair and holding him as tightly as he can manage. John just cries harder, his fingers scrabbling at Alex's back, his face pressed into the space between Alex's shoulder and neck. Alex can feel the hot tears running down over his shoulder and collarbones. "Ssssh, sssh, I've got you--I'm here, I've got you."

John's legs buckle and Alex can't hold them both up. All he can do is lower them to the ground as gently as he can manage. John is still clinging to him, still sobbing, and holding onto him is awkward and hard on Alex's knees, but he doesn't dare let go, even for a moment. There has to be something he can do, there has to be something he can say, he hates this, he hates feeling like this, he hates seeing John like this. John, who's strong and bull-headed and confident. This isn't right, this isn't his John, there's something wrong and he should be able to _fix it_.

"It's okay, sweetheart--just tell me what's wrong. Tell me what's wrong, please, baby, let me help. Tell me how to help you." He swallows against his own threatening tears, squeezes John tightly and presses kisses against the top of his head, his hair. 

John doesn't tell him, though. He cries and clutches Alex and gasps for breath, messy and ragged. He cries and cries and Alex holds him and prays that Lincoln doesn't come out to see what the ruckus is. Time inches by--Alex isn't sure how much time passes before John finally starts to calm, before the sobs turn to whimpers and then gasps and then soft hiccups. He keeps his arms around John, keeps petting his hair, and finally John pulls away. He sits up, his eyes directed at the floor. They're red-rimmed and wet, still, and his face is blotchy. He's still shaking.

"John." Alex can't hide the desperation in his voice. John glances up at him and then down again. "Baby, _please_."

John wipes his eyes with sharp, jerky movements, then tries to stand on wobbly legs.

"I'm ready to go." His voice is rough and still a little wet.

"John--"

"I just want to go."

Alex struggles to find a response to that, to find a good reason to urge John to stop and just _be still_ for a moment, just spend _five minutes_ working through this pain. He stares at John, willing the words to come to him, but John stares back, unflinching, his hollow mask firmly reaffixed.

So Alex leads him outside, cursing himself for not pushing, cursing John for being so fucking obstinate. Burr is leaning against his car on his phone when they get out to the parking lot. He doesn't ask any questions and doesn't make any comments about John's red eyes and splotchy face. Alex opens the back door and nudges John inside, then follows after him. He can tell that Burr wants to make some comment about not being a chauffeur, but Alex gives him a hard look and he keeps his mouth shut, getting into the driver's seat and starting the car without another word.

Alex had assumed that Burr would bring them to the Frog to get John's car or maybe back to their place, but he turns the wrong way out of the school and goes further into the suburbs instead of into town. He wants to ask where they're going, but John is still and silent next to him and he's afraid of setting him off. For all he knows, Burr is bringing them into the woods to kill them. Alex would almost welcome it at this point.

No, that's a lie. Things aren't that bad. He can fix this still, somehow. He knows he can.

A few turns later and Alex figures out where they're going. He glances at John to see if he's figured it out, but his face is blank, his mouth set in a thin line. Alex reaches over to take his hand, which he allows, but he doesn't squeeze back.

When Burr pulls up to the Washingtons' house, both cars are in the driveway. There's a small chance that Washington hasn't heard about the fight between John and Lee, but Alex would have felt better if he wasn't home, if they could go in and get mothered by Mrs. Washington and go home without the inevitable confrontation that's been hanging over them since John threw his first punch.

Burr cuts the engine and all three of them sit there for a moment. Alex realizes, belatedly, that he's the one who has to take charge here. John won't follow Burr and Burr likely knows it. Alex likes being the leader under normal circumstances, likes being in charge and directing the team, but this is different. He's still not confident he's doing the right thing with John. He's still not confident he has even the slightest idea of what the right thing is.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his door. John follows him after a moment, and Burr cautiously takes up the rear, far enough back that it's not entirely clear to anyone watching whether or not he's with John and Alex or just coincidentally headed to the same place. He rings the bell and waits, watching John out of the corner of his eye. John is staring at the ground, head bowed, even as Mrs. Washington opens the door.

"Hello, boys!" she says. "Alex, John, Mr. Burr...to what do I owe the pleasure?"

She's as pleasant as always, but there's a certain hesitance to her posture, as if she's holding herself back from them. She knows, then--Washington knows and he told her and he asked her to act normally and now she can barely stop herself from wrapping John up in a hug and doing her best to make him better. Alex feels sick with guilt. They've pulled the Washingtons into this. Whatever's wrong, whatever it is that Alex can't seem to fix, now the Washingtons are involved. He never wanted that. He hates the idea of worrying them, hates the fact that he can't even fucking take care of these simple things himself.

"Put them in the living room," Washington calls from inside, the direction of the kitchen. "I'll be in in a moment."

Alex tries to lead John by nudging his elbow, but he flinches away and starts in on his own, Alex and Burr following.

"Oh, John, your face, your hands," Mrs. Washington tuts once they're all inside.

"I'm fine," John says quietly. His voice is still raw from crying.

"Hush," she says. "Let me fetch my first aid kit." 

John sits on the couch and Alex follows, though he leaves almost a full cushion of space between them. Burr remains standing on the other side of the couch, shifting from foot to foot as they wait. Mrs. Washington reappears before Washington does, and Alex moves further away so she can sit next to John and start tending to his wounds.

"Did whoever looked you over last night put anything on these?" she asks. Apparently she's done pretending she doesn't know what happened.

"She gave me stuff to do it myself," John says, his voice still quiet.

"And let me guess, you didn't bother?" She doesn't wait for a response, just begins to methodically swab first John's cut lip and scratched temple, then his torn knuckles with disinfectant. John winces at the pain, but doesn't make a sound. She uses a q-tip to dab some ointment on his temple and knuckles, and bandages them as best she can. She gently touches the bruises on his jaw and cheekbone, though Alex knows there's not much she can do about those.

"Oh, honey," she says softly, and John's lower lip trembles. It just lasts a second, but that second feels like a lifetime and Alex is sure he's going to start to cry again.

He doesn't. Washington comes in then and John's shoulders tense and he sits up straight, his posture defiant, though he doesn't look up from his lap. Mrs. Washington stands up and moves to the other end of the couch, near Burr. She's not trying to disguise her concern any longer. Washington sits in his armchair and rests his elbows on his knees, bowing his head for a moment and then looking up at John and Alex both.

"This should be a conversation for the office," he acknowledges. When neither of them says anything, he continues. "What have I told you all summer? What have I _begged you_ not to do all summer? It's just a few more weeks--just a few more weeks and he would have been gone!"

Alex can't take it anymore, he says, "It was my fault, sir, I did it--I started it, I was the one--" The words are all in a jumble and Alex forces himself to stop and breathe and then start again. "Lee's been saying shit about you, posting it on Facebook and mouthing off to people. And I was the one who got in his face and, honestly, it was my fault, John was only protecting me."

Washington gives Alex a hard look, then glances at Burr. Burr shakes his head and Alex seethes.

"What the fuck does he know?" Alex says. "Don't listen to--"

"Hamilton."

Washington says it with a kind of ice and finality that stops Alex immediately. He swallows back a million more excuses and insults and squeezes his hands into fists. Washington's gaze is sharp and cool, but he doesn't say anything else, just looks over at John again.

"Mr. Laurens, do you think this is what I want? Do you think that I want people at this school to think I send children to fight my battles for me? Do you think I want anyone to assume that I'm so concerned with what people are saying on Facebook that I would endorse something like this?"

"But he wasn't doing it on your behalf, he was--" Washington looks at Alex again, and Alex swallows and keeps going. "Sir, honestly, he was--"

"Hamilton!" Washington snaps it this time, almost angry. Alex flinches.

"George," Mrs. Washington murmurs, and Washington looks at her and sighs, and then looks back at Alex and John.

"I'm trying to impart to you both that this sort of fiasco is a stain on all of us. On me, on the department, on our lab. This is not mature or civilized. It makes us look like our lab is contentious, full of in-fighting."

Alex wants to say that everyone knows that Lee's a jackass, that no one thinks that Washington has anything to do with it, that Lee isn't really a part of their lab. He's learned his lesson, and swallows it all down.

"This isn't appropriate behavior," Washington continues. "This isn't the behavior that I expect from my brightest students. But, more than anything, I'm disappointed that you would do this. That you would hurt someone else and put yourselves in danger over something as petty as name-calling. You two are my students and my mentees, but we all know that it's grown to more than that and it hurts me to think that you'd be so cavalier about my trust and your own personal safety."

Alex feels like an asshole. He feels like an asshole, even though he did everything he could to stop the fight from happening, even though he knew all of this last night, even though he agrees with ninety percent of what Washington just said. He's losing control of this, of whatever's happening to John, of what their lives have become. He needs to fix it. He needs to figure out what's wrong and _fix it_. Before anyone else gets hurt. Before John....

Before John gets hurt. Again.

They all sit in awkward, painful silence for long seconds after Washington finishes his speech. John hasn't moved or looked up since Washington started talking; he's staring sightlessly down at his lap. Alex wants to shake a reaction out of him. Finally, Mrs. Washington clucks her tongue and steps forward, resting a hand on John's shoulder.

"Come with me, honey," she says. "I want to look at that split lip in better light."

John doesn't say anything, but he does get up, head still bowed, and let her lead him out of the room with an arm around his waist. Alex watches him go and wants to shout or scream or cry or maybe break something. This is wrong, everything is wrong, this was supposed to be _their summer_. This was supposed to be Alex and John together and in love and having fun. Now he looks at John and hardly recognizes him. His John, this person who makes up the other half of his life, this person who feels like another limb or maybe an organ, something he can't live without. Three weeks ago they were happy. Three weeks ago, they were joking-but-not-joking about growing old together, about being so perfectly in step with each other that it was like they could read each other's minds.

Alex would give anything to be able to read John's mind now, even if he wouldn't like what he finds there. It would be worth it. Anything would be worth it if it meant he could crack the code and figure out how to make John better again.

"Alexander," Washington says, serious but soft, "how long has this been going on?"

If he's using Alex's given name, he means business. Alex works to swallow around the emotion stopping up his throat.

"I don't know what you mean, sir," he says.

"You do," Washington says. It's still not as commanding as it could be; it's like he's afraid to spook Alex, to send him running. "When did all of this start with John? It must have been while we were on vacation."

"Sir, I don't--" Alex tries to say, but Washington shakes his head.

"You're not in trouble, son," he says. "It's okay. But I need to know. I know exactly how you're feeling right now--I've been where you are, and I want to help. To do that, I need to know how long John's been this sick."

"He's not--" Alex can hear his own voice rising and snaps his mouth shut. Takes a breath. Tries to decide how to answer this. Because...well, maybe John is sick. Technically.

Washington rubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Alex, don't play this game with me. I know you love him. If you want to help him, you have to let us in. How long has John been this depressed and volatile? Has he hurt himself? You don't have to do this alone--we know people, we can get him help."

_Get him help._ Not help him, but _get him help_. Outside help. If Washington wants to bring in some outsider--if Washington thinks John has hurt himself and wants to bring in some outsider--

Alex knows how this ends. This ends in a hospital. If he lets Washington get someone else to help them, it ends with John locked up in some psych ward and Alex knows, _he knows_ that John would never forgive him for that. If Washington calls some doctor and has John committed, Alex doesn't know that John will ever speak to him again.

He can't let that happen. He _needs_ John. Twenty-two years, more personal tragedy and epic disasters than some people see in their lifetime, and this is Alex's breaking point--he can't lose John, he _can't_. 

He can still fix this. John is his family, his responsibility, and John's not beyond his reach yet. He can fix this, without locking John away.

"It's just--it's _nothing_ , I can handle it. It's just...it's just _life_ , it's not important, I can take care of it!"

"You can't do it alone," Washington says. "I know you think you have to, but trust me, it's not necessary."

"How the hell would you know?" Alex says shortly, then winces. That's basically like admitting defeat--he's more or less confirmed Washington's accusations. He should have just fucking denied and moved on. God, he's _tired_. Tired of this fight, tired of trying to keep both him and John in once piece, tired from a night spent pacing instead of sleeping. Fuck.

"Alexander--" Washington reaches out, but Alex stumbles to his feet and out of his reach. 

"No!" Alex says. "There's nothing wrong with him! It's none of your business and it's not your responsibility to take care of us! We're not your kids!"

He can tell that hurts, though there's just a flicker of it across Washington's face, gone as quick as it appears. He takes a step towards Alex and Alex takes another step back, just as Mrs. Washington and John return.

"Alex?" Mrs. Washington asks.

"We have to go," Alex says, warily eyeing Washington. "Burr, can you drive us back to John's car or do we need to take a Lyft?"

Burr looks carefully between all of them--Alex and John, Washington and Mrs. Washington. "I can take you," he finally says, though he doesn't sound happy about it.

"Great," Alex said. "Excellent. Let's go."

He grabs John's hand and John lets him take it, at least, doesn't flinch away. He pulls John out of the house without saying any further goodbye to the Washingtons, which he knows is going to come back to bite him in the ass. He can only avoid them for so long, and the next time he sees them he's sure he'll get it--guilt and disappointment layered on thick, Mrs. Washington looking concerned, Washington sighing and shaking his head. 

But that's not important right now. All that's important, from now until this is fixed, is John. He needs to be there for John. He needs to help John however he can, and as long as he has John--as long as he can make John better--he doesn't care about anything else. He just needs to keep John here with him.

John doesn't buckle his seatbelt in the backseat of Burr's car, which catches Alex's attention only because he's so adamant about everyone wearing their seatbelt in his own car. He also doesn't move all the way over, so he's pressed against Alex's side the entire way back to the Frog. He hasn't let go of Alex's hand. Alex wants to cry with a relief that he can't explain or name. John's not lost to him, not yet.

When they get to the Frog, Alex slides out, only to have his sleeve tugged back by Burr as John proceeds to his car.

"Hamilton," Burr murmurs. "You know what I'm going to say. You're not helping him like this."

"I swear to god, Burr--" Alex yanks his sleeve back.

"You don't have to do it alone. That's all I'm saying." He closes the car door before Alex can respond. Asshole.

John's waiting at his car, standing next to the driver's side door. He looks...tired. There are deep circles under his eyes and the bruises on his face make him seem pale in contrast. Or maybe he is pale. Maybe he's gotten that much paler over just the past few weeks.

"Can I?" Alex asks, and gestures towards his face. John nods slowly, guarded, but he lets Alex take his face in his hands. Alex inspects the cuts that Mrs. Washington has tended to, the bruises, the split lip. He gives John a small smile when he's done, all he can manage. "Still gorgeous."

John smiles back and it's just as small and weak. God, he _looks_ small. John's an inch or so shorter than he is and he always forgets it because he's _John_. His personality is huge and he's stronger and tougher than Alex, at least physically. But no, John looks small here, in the empty parking lot, leaning up against the side of his car in the grey light of the overcast morning. Alex wants to protect him, to hold on and never let go.

"Home?" Alex offers, and John nods mutely and gets into the car.

Alex walks around to the other side, spends five seconds with his eyes squeezed shut, taking calming breaths, and then plasters a smile onto his face and gets into the passenger seat.

*

When they get home, John stands listlessly in the living room, staring at nothing, until Alex says, "I'm sure you didn't get any sleep last night."

"Yeah," John says. "Yeah, I guess I should...yeah."

He wanders, trance-like, into the bedroom after that, and Alex is left, once again, with his own thoughts and worries and fears bearing down on him and nothing to immediately distract him.

It's Saturday, if nothing else. He might as well get started moderating comments on the blog. He's got a movie to watch too, a documentary screener that someone sent him that's been sitting on his to-do list since...well, since right after the Fourth of July. Right before John got...well. Right before whatever happened to John. They were supposed to watch it together that weekend; they were going to do a joint response, a review on the substance from Alex and a review on the artistry from John. He's lucky he didn't make those plans public outside of a vague tweet because he's not sure he has it in him to give John more work to do when he's already a mess.

Alex starts the documentary, absently taking notes through the first fifteen minutes, wondering in the back of his mind if it's even worth it to post this review any longer. The release date may have passed--he hasn't investigated further. And god knows he's not concentrating as hard as he could be.

Twenty minutes in, John wanders into the living room. He's changed from yesterday's clothes into one of Alex's t-shirts and a pair of sweats, but he looks just as tired as before.

"Can't sleep?" Alex asks tentatively. John nods. He comes over to the couch and, instead of sitting on the opposite end, he lies down and puts his head in Alex's lap. Alex runs his fingers through John's hair, scratching gently at his scalp. Months ago, when they were taking turns with a persistent cold, John told him that his mother used to comfort him by stroking his hair and he hopes he can evoke that same sort of comfort now.

He's going to have to watch the documentary again; he watches the screen until the end, but instead of focusing on what's being said, he spends those minutes thinking about what to say to John and turning several different options over in his head. John doesn't speak or move and Alex doesn't think he sleeps, either. He just lies there, head in Alex's lap, staring into the middle distance.

"Hey," Alex finally says as the credits start to roll. He waits for the customary response to that greeting, but John doesn't say anything, so he pushes onward. "We don't have to talk--you don't have to talk to me about this. But all I ever want is to help. I know you're hurting, and if I can take some of that pain from you...." He sighs and rubs his thumb against John's temple. "I love you. No matter what. No matter what you did or think you did or said or...whatever. I will always be here for you."

John doesn't respond and Alex starts to suspect that he _has_ fallen asleep, except....

Except that after a few minutes, he feels a damp spot start to spread across the top of his thigh.

"Oh, sweetheart," Alex murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut to force back his own tears.

They stay like that for a long time.


	15. Part Two: VI. the failures of the bold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex gives up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! Happy Fireworks and Cookout Day, if you are from the US! Happy Wednesday, otherwise!
> 
> This is the last downhill chapter, fingers crossed--starting next week, we're going to be wading through some of these issues and work our way into the upswing!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Suicidal ideation  
> \- Seriously  
> \- More explicitly than in past chapters  
> \- Suicidal recklessness  
> \- And Alex has a meltdown
> 
> So much thanks to **weesaw** and **a-classic-fool** as always--this story would be garbage without their help ♥

It's impossible to predict John these days, but Alex isn't surprised when he refuses to get out of bed in the morning. It's become a routine now--Alex getting up, coming back into the bedroom at lunch, trying to coax John out of bed, and ultimately leaving him alone for a few hours before trying the whole thing again. For one moment when Alex is genuinely afraid he's going to be sick, he wonders if this is going to be their routine forever. If Alex is going to spend the rest of his life trying to convince John that life outside of their bedroom is worth living.

Could he do that? Could he spend the rest of his life like this? He loves John more than anything, but, god, the thought of it....

He shakes it out of his head and forces himself to go back to the living room and try and get some work done. His website maintenance and work is starting to pile up, a casualty of this new normal. His two-week buffer is all but run out and his email inbox is stacked with messages he hasn't responded to yet. He needs to straighten out his priorities. He needs to remember that this website is responsible for everything he has in life and he can't just abandon it because it's an inconvenience.

He resolves to spend the day getting caught up. If John's not going to get out of bed and want to go to the lab, he can force out a week's worth of posts and spend two hours answering comments and emails and rewatch that stupid documentary and put up a review. He pours himself a fresh cup of coffee and puts on a new pot and sits down to make himself a to-do list. As he puts it together, he starts to realize just how behind on blog shit he is. His five point list expands to ten points and then twelve and then he makes himself stop before it actually becomes discouraging. Fuck, even the hurricane didn't fuck up his schedule this much.

The guilt lights a fire under him. The first thing he does is post a quick message on the main page apologizing for being so behind and making a vague comment about family matters, which is the best explanation he can give without getting distracted from his work by worrying about John again. Once that's up, he turns off comment notifications for a few hours to focus on getting his post queue filled up again. His scratchpad document, full of ideas for future theme weeks and entries and projects, hasn't been updated in almost two weeks. He's lucky he's verbose on a good day--even without adding to it, there's definitely enough material to come up with two or three weeks' worth of posts, not even taking any breaking news or newly released articles into account. He makes himself another to-do list, this one with potential topics, and then throws himself into them one by one.

It feels good to be working. It feels good to be doing something for himself, to be so focused on something that he doesn't have the mental real estate to obsess over his boyfriend. He finds his way back into something not unlike his usual rhythm, filling document after document with posts and links and thoughts until he has seven complete posts and four solid drafts. He still hasn't tackled the comments or the other notifications in his Athenodorus inbox, but he's slowly starting to feel more centered, more like himself.

He pauses to refresh his coffee and glances at his phone for the first time. Amid the tweets and news alerts, there's a missed call from Herc. It's enough to catch his attention--Herc doesn't call if he can text, they're just not phone friends. If he's calling, it's probably urgent, though he didn't leave a message. Even without a message, it's weird enough that he puts his coffee down next to his laptop and calls him back.

Herc picks up after two rings.

"Ham," he says and his voice is warm and familiar, his friend, this person he's confided in, this person he can count on, rely on, this person who has always looked out for him. All at once, all the feelings Alex has stoppered up all afternoon are threatening to return.

"Herc," he says, and then clears his throat and tries again when the name comes out as a squeak. "Herc. Sorry. I've been working all day, my throat's rusty."

"I'll bet," Herc says. "I saw the post on your blog."

"Oh, yeah," Alex says. He runs his free hand through his hair, which is tangled and greasy. Fuck, apparently John's personal grooming habits are catching. He needs to take a fucking shower. "I'm working on getting back on schedule. I mean, I haven't missed anything yet, but some stuff snuck up on me."

"You're not kidding," Herc says. "Dude, you missed that article out of Oxford and the news in Reykjavik and I know they sent you a screener for _The Science of Death_. Plus, in the sordid gossip section of the field, it turns out that fucking shitbag Clinton has been creeping on women fucking _again_."

Fuck. Alex googles "parapsychology Reykjavik" in one tab and then, while that's loading, opens another tab and searches for news on George Clinton.

"I'm just...I've been busy, it's been a crazy summer."

"Apparent-fucking-ly."

Alex squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Herc, I really don't--I don't have time to--did you just call to scold me?"

"Nah." His voice is softer now, which is almost worse. "I'm calling because Lafayette called me last week to tell me something's going on with John, and between that and your post today, I figured I should check in."

Fucking...Laf. _Fuck_.

"It's none of Laf's business!" Alex snaps. 

"Hey, now," Herc says. "He's just worried about you guys. I am, too."

"There's nothing to be worried about," Alex says. He takes a deep breath, trying to regulate the waver in his voice. "We're fine. It's just John being John."

"Laf says it's not that. Laf says _you told him_ it's not that, that you were worried."

"Well--well, I was wrong," Alex stutters. "I was wrong, he's just--I was wrong." His throat is thick and slick, no matter how many times he tries to swallow or clear it. He can't stop thinking about someone trying to take John away from him. Would Herc side with Washington, insist on getting outsiders involved? Alex can't be sure.

"Bro." Herc sighs. "Look. I get it. You love him. You want to protect him. We all know how you are. But you two are up there alone in the middle of goddamn nowhere. And I fucking know you, so I know you're trying to do this all by yourself."

Alex doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what there is to say.

"You can't do it all on your own," Herc continues. "You shouldn't have to. It's gonna stretch you too thin until you're just as much of a fucking mess."

"I'm _fine_ ," Alex says through clenched teeth. He doesn't let himself think about how he's parroting John, now. "I'm not stretched thin."

"Look at your fucking blog, man!" Herc says. It's the closest to angry he's ever heard Herc get, enough to make his voice die in his throat. "When you were in bed for a week with the fucking flu you wouldn't let that blog get more than a week behind. You're three weeks behind the times, now. I've been following this thing since before I knew you and it's never fucking been this quiet. You're letting it affect your work."

"I...." Alex can't come up with an excuse, his mind is blank.

"Whatever he's going through," Herc continues, "it's hurting you too. It's hurting you and you're alone up there. And I'm trying to get back as fast as I can, but I've got a job to finish down here. You can't take care of him _and_ you if you both go crazy, kid. You just can't."

"I'm fine," Alex murmurs. He doesn't even try to infuse it with anything close to certainty.

"If you're not gonna talk to me and Laf, which is fine, we're a million miles away, I get it, talk to GWash. Talk to...fucking Burr, to John's physics girl friend, to von Steuben, to _anyone_. Don't let it swallow you both up, kid."

"I...." Alex is suddenly bone-tired.

"I'm just worried, man," Herc says. "We all are."

"Yeah," Alex murmurs. "Sure. Look, I've gotta go."

Herc sighs again. "Sure. Whatever, kid. You got a week. I'm gonna call you again in a week, and if you're still a fucking shitshow, I'm sending someone to shake some sense into you."

"Goodbye, Herc," Alex says, and hangs up.

He feels like shit for hanging up. Herc's just trying to help. Herc's trying to help, Laf's trying to help, fucking _Burr's_ trying to help. He doesn't need their help, he doesn't _want_ their help, but he's so fucking _tired_.

He fills his queue with the posts he's finished so far and then puts his laptop to sleep. The sun hasn't even begun to set yet, but Alex doesn't think he can keep his eyes open one more minute.

He goes into the bedroom, where John is still lying in bed, staring at the wall. He startles and looks at Alex when he comes in, follows his movements across the room as he strips and crawls into bed. John rolls onto his back to keep watching Alex, who just sighs and lies down next to him.

"I'm tired," he tells John and closes his eyes.

His blog isn't right yet, his work at school is still off track, and he's made no progress in helping John. The day is a wash and he might as well get it over with as soon as possible.

* * *

Alex isn't sure how long he slept in the morning. It's bright and sunny already and John is out of bed. In his sluggish crawl into bed the night before, he didn't bother to bring his phone into the bedroom.

His phone. His conversation with Herc. Shit. Alex is abruptly very tired again.

He peels off the last of yesterday's clothes, the things he slept in, and pulls on a t-shirt hanging off the edge of the dresser. It smells mostly clean and it's good enough for going out into the kitchen to investigate John's whereabouts. He can shower later--he definitely needs it. He does pause to take out his contacts on his way out to the kitchen--his eyes are killing him, even if he's too lazy to wash his face or brush his teeth.

John is in the kitchen. He's making breakfast. Like, _making_ breakfast: scrambling eggs, making toast. There's a full pot of coffee. There's a mix of black beans and salsa already sitting on the counter. For one hopeful moment, Alex wonders if he hasn't been asleep for three weeks. Maybe this whole month so far has been a terrible dream. Maybe his John is fine and he's fine and everything will continue as normal from here on out.

"Hey," John says softly when he sees Alex standing in the doorway, gaping.

"Hi," Alex replies, and John smiles just a little. There's still guilt lingering behind his eyes, but it's a real smile and he gestures Alex closer.

"I'm making breakfast," he says unnecessarily. "Is there anything you want in your eggs?"

"No," Alex says. He stares down at the pan of eggs, and then back up at John, trying hopelessly to read his face. "How are you?"

"Hungry," John says, which isn't quite what Alex was asking. "How are you?"

"Tired," Alex says. "Also hungry."

Two can play this game.

John nods and stirs the pan of eggs again, then, satisfied with their consistency, turns the burner off. "I was trying to make huevos rancheros, but then the yolks broke on two of the eggs, so I just scrambled them and also, uh, we don't actually have any tortillas."

"Oh, well if we don't have any tortillas fuck all of this," Alex says, and John laughs and smiles his stupid, awkward smile that flashes his teeth. Alex isn't sure how he reacts to that, but he immediately regrets whatever face he made, because it makes John frown, the smile disappearing just as quickly as it appeared. He reaches up to stroke Alex's cheek and brushes his thumb across his bottom lip.

"Baby...." he starts to say, then stops. He leans forward and kisses Alex instead, long and measured and warm, one hand cupping Alex's jaw and the other resting on his hip. Alex closes his eyes and gives himself over to John, lets himself be held and kissed for long seconds before John steps back. 

Alex smiles. John smiles too.

Alex doesn't want to think _maybe we'll be okay_ because every time he's thought that so far he's been so, so wrong. But hope is sneaky and treacherous and it bleeds through anyway as he takes a plate and piles it with eggs and beans and salsa and toast.

They sit and eat at their tiny table, so piled with stuff, still, that they're practically on top of each other. John hooks his ankle around Alex's and says, "Lab today?"

"Yeah, I have a lot of work I need to catch up on," Alex says. He needs to finish yesterday's to-do list, if nothing else.

"Me too," John says. "And I want to tweak some of the slides in our workshop presentation again."

"I need to take a shower before we go."

"I can maybe help you with that."

And there's that hope again.

They don't have sex in the shower, but they do have sex in their bedroom after. It's not quite as animated and talkative as usual, but John's smiles are genuine and his eyes are less shadowed than they've been. The hope keeps steadily dripping through him as they dress, as John stops him in the living room for a long, sweet kiss before they get their bags and go down to his car. It trickles down with every smile, and by the time they're walking to the lab, holding hands, it's starting to fill him up against his will.

It's probably better that Molly is waiting for them now. It would just hurt more if that hope kept building up all day.

Molly's waiting in Washington's lab, pacing a rut in the floor. She looks up sharply as they enter, and even before she says anything, Alex knows. He knows this isn't going to end well. He wants to cut her off before this goes down, step between her and John and say, _No, you can't do this, please, it's a good day, I need a good day_.

For a fleeting second, he hopes that it's him she's come to be angry at, not John, but that was always a longshot and the way her gaze zeroes in on John kills any lingering doubts.

"What the _fuck_?" she snaps at John. "What the fuck were you thinking?!"

"I...what?" John is wary, his hackles raised, but still largely confused. Alex doesn't know what she's talking about either, but he knows it's not going to be good.

"Fucking Friday night!" Molly says. "When you made my girlfriend _call the police_ because you couldn't stop wailing on some asshole!"

John drops Alex's hand. Fuck.

"You have no idea what you're talking about, so back off," John warns her.

"No idea what I'm--I was there, asshole! I saw what happened! And Lee's a piece of shit, but not a piece of shit worth property damage! Not a piece of shit worth police reports! Do you know what kind of position that put Maggie in? She likes you guys, she knows you're my friends, how do you think she felt having you destroy her patio?"

"Molly--" Alex tries to say, but John takes a step forward and in front of him before he can continue.

"Jesus christ, is that why you're upset?" John says. "Not because people could have been hurt, not because _I_ could have been hurt, but because your stupid girlfriend is pissed about it? Because you're afraid she'll dump you if you're friends with low-life troublemakers?"

"Jesus, Laurens, shut up!" Molly shouts.

"Spoiler alert: she works at a fucking bar in the middle of nowhere outside of a university. She's not fucking better than me because I threw a punch at someone who deserved it and she's got nothing to stand on if she wants to fucking condescend to us. She's a goddamn bartender."

"Fuck off, Laurens." Molly's voice has gone low and sharp. Alex has heard her mad plenty of times, but never like this. She sounds almost dangerous.

"John," Alex says, grabbing his wrist to pull him back, but he shakes Alex off. "Molly," Alex tries again, "listen--"

"Or maybe you're just fucking afraid that she's gonna dump you because you know you like her way more than she likes you and this is as good an excuse as any."

Even Alex is shocked by that. He's stunned, actually, unable to move as he reels from that revelation.

Because...it's true. Everyone _knows_ it's true, John and Alex have sadly commiserated that they wished it wasn't true because Molly deserves some romantic happiness, but it's not the sort of true thing that you say to someone else. Even Alex, as stupid about social interaction as he sometimes is, knows enough to recognize that. It's the sort of true thing that you pretend isn't there, all the while preparing to deal with the inevitable fallout. It's definitely not something you rub in a friend's face.

The room is silent, save for the humming of the sample fridge as it kicks on. Alex searches for something to say or do, but before he can even manage a _he didn't mean it like that_ , Molly regains her composure and turns to leave, shoving John hard out of her way and then slamming the door with so much force that the whole lab shakes.

Then it's back to the silence.

"John," Alex finally says, softly. John ignores him and moves on towards his desk.

"I'll apologize to her later," he mutters. "And it's not like it isn't true."

John once said to him after a fight, _I don't know why I say these things to you when I'm upset. I don't know why I always try to hurt you_. It's like a secret, awful superpower--John can always, always find the weakest place and strike there when he's mad. Sometimes what he says is true and sometimes it's a twist of the truth and sometimes it's just what you're afraid might be true, but it can be brutal. And it looks like he's done it again.

"She's your friend," Alex says quietly.

John's shoulders hunch and his head hangs and Alex can read the exhaustion and frustration and embarrassment in the curve of his spine.

"I know," John says. "I know she is. I don't know--I just--I mean, I do. I do know. It's because this is who I am, this is how fucked up I am. But I know I shouldn't--"

It's hard to follow John's line of thought. Where it's usually clear enough for Alex to read like a book, lately it's been hard for Alex to track it, to follow John's brain from one point to the next the way he normally does. He knows one thing for certain, though, and he approaches John and leans against his back, embracing him from behind.

"You're not fucked up," he whispers into the curve of John's neck. He kisses the top notch of his spine. 

"Alex," John sighs. His head dips even lower. "Please don't lie to me today."

"I'm not," he insists, but John just sighs again, a tension settling into his shoulders. "Or, you're not any more fucked up than any of the rest of us," he tries instead. "You're a shitshow, but you're my shitshow."

That doesn't even get a hint of a smile.

"I'm a timebomb," John says nonsensically. 

"Baby...." 

Burr, of all people, saves him from floundering for a response to that. He opens the lab door, looking over his shoulder, and says, "Molly Ludwig is crying."

"It's a long story," Alex says.

Burr raises his eyebrows at Alex, who shakes his head once, hard. Fuck, Burr's probably going to try and talk to him about this _again_ and Alex just fucking can't today. He just...can't.

He's so fucking tired.

Burr moves to his desk without another word and Alex turns back to John, resting his forehead against the nape of his neck. He doesn't know what to do or say. He's said _I love you_ so many times since this started in place of some mystery word or phrase that will make this better, that will make John understand that he's not alone and that he doesn't need to bear this pain on his own. For all his strength with words, finding words for John has always been a struggle, since the day they met. He used to think that was romantic, that it was sweet that he could never quite describe John, never quite convey the truth of the depth and breadth of his affection in a way that pleased him.

It's not romantic any longer. He'd give anything to be able to find those magic words that would make John share his pain and explain what's happening in his head. For all his essays and blog posts and articles and tweets, how can he be anything other than a failure if he can't do this simple thing for someone he loves?

He kisses the nape of John's neck again and squeezes his waist, then lets go and steps back, sitting down at his own desk. Burr is still staring at them. Alex turns away before he can meet his eyes.

* * *

Alex thinks he's losing his mind.

He looks at the calendar over and over again, following the days back to the morning this all started. It's been three weeks almost to the day and he fears whatever John has is catching. He's tired all the time, strung out, exhausted. He pushes himself through his work, fights to get his blog back in order, but it's overwhelming him. Even when it's been work, his blog has always come quickly and easily, but every word these days is like pulling teeth. He wants to scream. He wants to throw his laptop on the ground, but he knows that won't help. His head aches and he's always tense around John, wondering if it's going to be pretending-he's-fine John or don't-touch-me John or angry-and-aggressive John or can't-get-out-of-bed John or, though his hope for it grows dimmer with each day that passes, _his_ John, back from whatever pit he's buried himself in, from whatever darkness has surrounded him so intensely that he can't find his way out. He wants to shake him, but he's afraid if he starts, he won't be able to stop.

He thinks about what Herc said about having a week to fix things, he thinks about Burr's constant insistence that he "help" John, as if he's not trying every fucking day to help him. He thinks of the way that Washington keeps looking at them, keeps trying to corner Alex to talk to him, though Alex has become quite adept at dodging his questions and slipping away before he can get further than pleasantries. He thinks about how it's only been three weeks and he's already aged three years. He thinks about how he can't sustain this much longer before John pulls Alex down after him and they're both trapped in whatever this is.

He's angry with John, so fucking pissed that he won't let himself be helped, that he's putting Alex through this, that he's putting their friends through this, that he won't just snap out of it and fucking _talk_. He's angry with himself for being angry with John, who's sick, obviously, who can't help this. And his heart is cracked in two and split open as he thinks about how much worse John must feel. If Alex is this despairing, this downtrodden, this exhausted and listless, what John's feeling must be ten times as bad. To think John feels the way Alex feels right now not infrequently. To think of what John must be going through now.

He just wants John to be happy. It's all he's ever wanted, and up to now he hasn't doubted his ability to provide that. It might be time to accept that he can't do that anymore, if he ever could. He can't provide this simple thing, no matter how desperately he wishes he could. He can't fix John. He's failed at this, at protecting this person he loves. 

He thinks that on Wednesday morning, blinking back tears and staring at the ceiling. He's exhausted--John spent two hours in the bathroom last night with the shower on and the door closed and even without the lock, Alex sat outside the door with his forehead resting on the door, praying that the water would stop and John would come out, listening for movement to make sure he was okay. A month ago, the five hours of sleep he managed to get would be more than enough to propel him through his day, but now he's so tired he can barely get up and dressed.

"Maybe we should cancel the case tonight," Alex says in the kitchen once he succeeds in sitting up and putting on clean clothes.

"Why?" John asks. It's pretending-he's-fine John today, then.

"I'm just...tired," he says. "And I know you are too. We're going to be sloppy."

"I'm fine," John insists.

If Alex never has to hear _I'm fine_ again, he'll throw a fucking party. Every time John says it, he struggles not to throw up.

"Okay," Alex says. He's too fucking tired to fight.

He goes through the day in a fog, moving by rote, watching John, ignoring Washington and Burr. Herc's one-week timeline is still ticking down. Four more days to fix this and, to be honest, he's not sure if he wants time to slow down so he can fight to find a way to make John better before Sunday or speed time up so Herc can step in, so _anyone_ can step in and it won't be Alex's responsibility any longer. He still feels sick at the thought of someone trying to take John away from him, at the thought of John leaving him over that betrayal, but he's at the point where he feels sick every day anyway. Embracing his failure might actually be a relief.

"Are we still doing this thing tonight?" Burr asks in the afternoon. 

"Yes," John says, sharp and defensive. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"No reason," Burr says with a long-suffering sigh.

"It's just recon," Alex mumbles, a half-hearted defense of John that even now he can't help but give, even though he resents it. "A walk-through and notes for that real estate agent and if it's a thing, we can set up tomorrow night. It won't take long." 

"Fine," Burr says. "I'll meet you back here at seven. We'll leave at seven-thirty."

Alex doesn't even have the energy to tell Burr off for acting like it's his fucking IP business and not John and Alex's. He just lets it go, like he's let so much go these past few weeks, and tries to focus enough to get one single thing done before it's time to go.

*

The house is brand new, the first in a new development off Rt. 24 that's more or less in the woods. The area all around the house has been cleared of trees and more or less leveled, and several foundations have gone in, but this house is the only complete structure. 

"It's the model home," the real estate agent had told them over the phone. "But something about it isn't right. Things have been happening--some of it can be attributed to faulty wiring and the house settling and the like, but some of our contractors are spooked, so we thought we'd call you in."

It's almost eight when they arrive, John and Alex in one of the department vans joining Burr, who left about five minutes before them in his own car. This is nothing more than a reconniscience visit, a few long walks through the house and property to see what they see with portable tech so they can gather enough information to put together a full plan for the array they'll need to collect data. It's a step they can usually skip in places people live and work consistently, places where there are witnesses to document the strange goings on. With the model house empty and the construction mostly finished, no one has been on site long enough to get more than a fleeting impression of a haunting. If they want a good idea of what's here--if anything--they need to look for themselves.

Burr didn't have much of a headstart on them, but he's already got an EMF detector set up next to his laptop. He's leaning over the keyboard, adjusting some of the feeds, and looks up as they approach.

"It's quiet so far," he says. "We might get more when we--"

He's interrupted by a wail from the EMF detector, loud and high pitched for a solid five seconds before it goes silent again.

"Holy crap," Alex murmurs, walking quickly over to Burr's computer. "What the fuck was that?"

"Maybe a malfunction?" Burr says. "There's no reason for it to do that, the screens were clear before."

John hasn't moved. He's standing near the van, staring up at the house, a camera hanging loosely from one hand.

"We should go in," he murmurs.

"We should probably take a look at whatever the hell just happened first," Alex says.

"And do a walk through of the property," Burr adds. "If that reading was that strong from twenty feet away from the--"

The meter goes crazy again, squealing into the silent evening, the red light on the detector flashing as the meter on Burr's laptop explodes into motion, the readings spiking off the chart. This time, it stays that way for almost ten seconds.

John is still staring up at the house. He looks determined.

"No, let's go inside."

This is not what Alex wants to do tonight. He wants to do this walkthrough and go fucking home and go to sleep. He doesn't have the energy to fight with John anymore, not today.

"John--" he starts to say, but John is already turned back into the open van to attach a filter to his camera.

"This is crazy," Burr says. "You're being ridiculous, Laurens, this is clearly something far more intricate than we thought when we came over here. We were preparing this recon trip based on low-level readings and anecdotal evidence, we're not prepared for--"

"It's why we're here!" John interrupts him sharply. "We came here to see what's going on, there's something going on, it's our fucking job to look into it."

"That's not why we're here at all!" Burr insists, throwing his hands up in the air. 

John is looking to Alex for back-up. So is Burr. And while Alex would normally be excited by the prospect of something new, potentially something strong, that's not what they packed for, not what they expected. They don't have a plan. And with John behaving so strangely still, he's not sure if going into an unknown, potentially dangerous situation is a good way to end their night.

"We should collect some data," he says slowly, and John looks triumphant. "But from outside, first. We don't need to go in to get some of these readings."

Now John is...angry's not the right word. Unhappy, maybe, but that's not right either. He's staring at Alex with this strange expression, and even if he can't identify it, it's tying his stomach into knots.

"We at least need to walk around," he says to John. "If it's dangerous in there--"

"Real estate agents and contractors have been in and out all day for weeks! It can't be that dangerous," John insists, but something in his tone--it's almost as if he's disappointed in his own conclusion.

"We don't know what the atmosphere was like then. We know what it's like now," Burr says, steely. "We'll do outside and we'll come back in the morning and figure out how to proceed." He glances quickly at Alex and then back at John before he says, "Those are the protocols that _you_ wrote for your business."

Burr's throwing him a lifeline and he knows it, a way to insist on doing things the safe way without making it look like he's deferring to Burr. And, fuck, they blow through those protocols more frequently than he would ever admit to a licensing board, but that doesn't matter at the moment.

"We'll do a full perimeter of the property," Alex says instead of _he's right_. "Cameras, environmentals, audio. We can record overnight and maybe get von Steuben and the guys to come back with us tomorrow night if it looks bad. There's a good possibility we just don't have the stuff we need to deal with this."

John sighs so hard it would be funny under other circumstances. He doesn't say anything, but he stomps back towards the van and grabs a case for an external camera array, then marches towards the other side of the property. A small fraction of Alex's anxiety dissipates, enough that he can breathe deeply again.

"Hamilton--"

"Don't," he says to Burr. "Let's just work."

" _Alexander_ \--"

Alex whirls around the heads to the van. He hears Burr's footsteps on the gravel behind him, following him back, refusing to take a hint.

"Are you really so stubborn that you would put his health--"

Alex grabs an audio recorder and shoves the headphones on his head, then turns and gives Burr a flat look. He knows he should talk to Burr, say, _I know, but for the first time in my life I can only manage to concentrate on one thing at a time and right now it's work, let's talk about this later_. That would be the mature thing to do. He just doesn't have the strength to be mature right now.

Normally, Alex gravitates towards setting up the environmentals, but it would be awkward to switch now, so he takes the audio rig and starts putting it together, turning his back on Burr. It doesn't take him long to fall into the rhythm of the job--audio isn't something he works with frequently, so he has to concentrate just slightly harder to make sure the equipment is placed correctly and on all the proper settings. He works steadily around the perimeter of the house and takes the headphones off once he's back at the van, his point, hopefully, made to Burr. He puts the empty cases back in the van and pulls out the next closest case. When he gets it into the quickly fading light, he sees that it's the outdoor still cameras. He puts the case aside, slowly--John will handle those. In fact, it's kind of weird that he hasn't handled them already.

But John's been moving slower than usual lately--it's not that weird that he's slow at this, too. Alex reaches past them to grab some stand alone EMF sensors and walks back over to where Burr is frowning at his laptop. He must have muted it, because the EMF spike is pulsing fairly regularly now, but the screeching of the equipment is gone.

"I'm going to put up the stand alones," Alex says to him. "I'm going to set them to record independently, not link them to the system. There's a chance that this weird reading is faulty equipment."

"Mmhm," Burr says. The furrow between his eyes deepens. Alex glances over his shoulder. He's got Herc's military grade heat sensors set up and he's staring at the read out on the screen. It takes Alex a second to put together what he's seeing--at first, it seems like the readings are blank, but when he looks more closely he sees...well, the opposite. The cold spot on the first level of the house is so big that it covers the majority of the space. It's not blankness they're staring at, it's something...massive.

"Holy shit," Alex murmurs. "Is that--"

"It can't be," Burr says quietly. "There's no way it--"

Burr stops when something red and orange enters the frame. Something red and orange and distinctly human shaped. Alex's stomach drops to his knees. He's going to be sick.

"What the hell is he--" Burr starts to say, but Alex doesn't hear the rest because he's already sprinting towards the house. John is inside the house. John is inside the house with an entity so big that it doesn't fit on their sensor screen.

"John!"

Behind him, Burr shouts, "Hamilton, you're going to get yourself killed!"

Alex ignores him and launches himself at the front door of the house. It won't open. He can tell it's unlocked, but something is keeping it from pushing inwards. John is inside. John is inside that house with that _thing_. Alex throws his full weight against the door and when it doesn't budge, he abandons it and tears around the side of the house.

Burr is still screaming after him, but it's a dull buzz at the edge of Alex's senses. All that matters is that John is in that house, that Alex has been doing everything he could to protect John for the past month and he can't let anything happen to him now. It can't have been for nothing. He can't lose John--not ever, but not like this.

It takes Alex a minute to realize that the high pitched hum ringing in his ears is coming from the house, from whatever is inside of it. It can't be a good sign, and he breaks into a sprint for the side door, slamming it--thankfully--open and stumbling into the house.

The inside of the house is cold and _loud_. The hum is worse in here and there are things smashing and crashing around. Panting, Alex stumbles out of the laundry room and into the living area. He's standing at one end of the kitchen and he can see into the living room across the way, through the open doorway at the other end. 

John is in the living room.

He has his camera out, but he's not shooting, as far as Alex can't see. He's not doing anything, in fact--he's standing stock still as furniture and building materials fly around him, a whirlwind of energy just inches away from pulling John inside. Alex can't breathe, and when he does finally manage a breath, he screams John's name.

John turns to him, eyes downcast, and Alex watches as he's shoved backwards so hard and so fast he's lifted off his feet.

He hits the wall with a thud that Alex can hear even over the hum and the clamor. He stumbles back to his feet, and then he's thrown again, skidding across the carpet.

"John!" Alex shouts, and stumbles into action, barrelling through the kitchen. He doesn't know what he can do, but his heart is in his throat, he's cold with fear, and he can't just watch this happen. Something has John. _Something has John_.

John looks much more sanguine about the whole affair. Instead of fear or even anger or determination, John looks almost...peaceful. 

Alex has to dodge debris, which impedes his progress across the kitchen. John is being bounced back and forth between...something. Something has him and is fucking _playing with him_ and Alex is shaking with fear. He watches as one particularly vicious smack against nothing has John biting his split lip open again, blood oozing down his face.

His eyes are closed and Alex can't tell if he's still conscious or if he's been knocked out or--

That thought spurs him into action. He needs to get outside and get an exorcism kit, he needs to start a ritual as quickly as he can, he needs to get John away from this thing, he can't lose John like this, he can't, he can't, he can't....

Before he can tear himself away from the cat and mouse game in the living room, the entity makes the decision for him. It throws John at the French doors with enough force to send him clean through them and out into the yard, at least ten yards away and down a twelve foot drop.

Everything is a haze after that. Later, Alex will only remember snippets of it. He must have run through the house, run back out the side, but he barely remembers seeing any of it, just remembers the fear, the panic, the sickness he fought down, the hysteria. He'll remember, muzzily, screaming for Burr to meet him in the back and his lungs burning and the dizziness that comes before a panic attack floating in the back of his brain.

And he'll remember, in stark clarity, staring at John who was halfway down the porch steps, surrounded by shattered glass and wood and plastic and aluminum, eyes closed, face smeared with blood.

Alex's eyes take in everything at once, suspended in this one moment. John is bleeding from a dozen places and his eyes are closed and he landed on his shoulder, halfway through part of the doorframe, which came out with him. There's a shard of glass a foot long sticking out of it still, just inches away from his chest. 

Maybe there's also one in his back. Maybe he broke his neck falling down the stairs. Maybe--

John's eyes open slowly and he blinks and takes in his surroundings and his face falls. All at once, Alex places the pained expression on his face. It's the same expression that he's seen on John's face more than once over the past few weeks. It makes his stomach turn.

He's upset.

He's not scared or in pain or angry or ecstatic to be alive, he's disappointed.

John is disappointed to be alive.

And then time is back to normal, the slow-motion blur of the moment disappearing. Burr is there, shouting something that Alex doesn't hear. John is staring at the sky, completely despondent, and the entity in the house is smashing other things and all of the words that Alex has spent the summer avoiding are flooding into his mind and he goes abruptly numb.

It's like he's watching what happens from a distance, floating above the whole scene. Watching as Burr bellows at them it's too dangerous to stay here, to get in the car. Watching himself grab John's hands and pull him to his feet. Watching John dispassionately yank the glass out of his shoulder and half-heartedly brush the rest of the debris off. Watching them grab their bags and get in Burr's car and leave the van and the scene.

He thinks he should be embarrassed or ashamed of leaving a job half-finished, but all of those emotions are still far away, outside of this bubble that seems to be surrounding him, dulling his thoughts and his reactions and his hearing. Not that there's much to hear--they're all silent as Burr speeds away. Alex knows exactly where he's going, but he can't find it in him to protest. He tries to rest his head against the window and close his eyes, but whenever his eyes close, he sees the same thing--John, on his back, halfway down the porch stairs, staring at the sky in disappointment that he was alive to see it.

John is staring out the opposite window, huddled far away from Alex. Alex sees his reflection in the glass, the scratches and blood all over his face, the bruising that's intensified. His shirt is torn to shreds, too, and his arms. Alex is shocked that Burr is allowing him to bleed all over a car that costs more than all three of them make in a year combined, but maybe he's just as numb as Alex is. Maybe he's drowning in all that's happened too.

Burr skids to a stop outside of the Washingtons' house and Alex slowly begins to come back down to earth. He's aware enough to resist going in for a moment, to try and find an excuse to stay in the car. Going in can only lead to another confrontation with the Washingtons and Alex still hasn't apologized for the last one. He's still too adrift to make an excuse, though, so he pushes past that moment of hesitation and joins Burr outside the car. A moment later, John reluctantly follows them.

Burr doesn't say anything, he just marches up to the door. He looks...angry. God, Alex doesn't know that he's ever really seen Burr display this much emotion. He wants to point it out, to taunt him that something has finally cracked him open, but then he remembers what that something is and he wants to throw up.

"Mr. Burr, what--oh good lord." Mrs. Washington's face falls as she opens the door all of the way, taking in Burr and John and Alex's general appearances. "Come inside, all of you."

When they walk into the front hall, into the light, Mrs. Washington can't hide the gasp that escapes after she sees John. In the living room, Washington is sitting in his armchair, watching a baseball game. Or, rather, he was watching a baseball game. Now he's staring at them with undisguised surprise and concern.

"Jesus," he murmurs. "What the hell is going on?"

"It's nothing," John mutters, looking away. "It's fine."

Something inside of Alex breaks.

"It's not fine!" he snaps, whirling to face John head-on. John looks up, shocked, lips parted in surprise. "You're not fine! You're not fucking--jesus christ, John, just fucking stop it!"

John shuts his eyes and winces and all of Alex's fear and anger and despair and frustration continue to bubble over, spilling out in a torrent of words.

"I've spent the entire month doing everything in my fucking power to keep you alive, to keep you with me, to keep you safe, and you fucking go and--what the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you doing this? Why won't you just fucking talk to me? I love you so fucking much that I've been lying for you, bending over backwards to accommodate your fucking downward spiral, hoping that maybe that would make you open up, maybe it would make you feel safe enough to _trust me_ but nothing I fucking do is enough! Something's wrong! I know that something's wrong, I know it's been wrong for weeks and I can help you! God, I can help you, I want to help you, why won't you let me help you?"

"Alex--" John's voice wobbles as he says it and he reaches out, but Alex twists out of the way.

"I don't know what to do anymore!" Alex says, and he's horrified when he realizes he's crying. "I don't know why I'm not enough to keep you here, but you can't leave me. I can't do this on my own anymore, I can't do this without you, I can't lose you. I need you!" All of his deepest fears are spilling out between them, scattering everywhere for Washington and Mrs. Washington and Burr to see, but Alex can't stop himself. He's been holding onto this all for so long now, days and weeks, and he can't keep secrets like that, he wasn't made for bottling these feelings up. Now they're coming out and he can't stop it. "Just tell me what to do, tell me what you need, tell me what I'm not doing because I can't live like this anymore! I can't--I can't keep going on this way! I want to be there for you, I want to help, but I'm not strong enough, I can't...I can't...." He wipes furiously at his eyes with shaking hands. His vision is blurring and he wants to stop talking, but he can't. "Please let me help you, _please_ tell me what to do, John--I don't know how to keep living like this. I can't do it, _please_!"

He chokes, then, on a sob that he wasn't expecting. His head throbs and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to center himself again. His heart is trying to beat out of his chest--it's almost like he's having a panic attack.

Someone puts their arm around his shoulder and he tries to shrug them off, but the grip remains steady and Alex realizes it's Washington. Alex tries to clear his vision, blinking his eyes and rubbing at them, but Washington doesn't wait--he leads Alex out of the foyer and down the hall, into his office. Alex wants to protest, wants to turn around and run away and hide until the embarrassment of this fit he's thrown--is throwing--fades away. Because, god, he's mortified. He's still too shaken to apologize, but he's in enough of his right mind to recognize that he's just melted down completely in front of his boss.

Washington sits him down in the desk chair and then sits on the futon across from him. He hands Alex a box of tissues and then leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and waits for Alex to come back to himself.

It takes a few minutes. He can't stop crying, weeks' worth of suppressed feelings finally finding their release. Eventually, even the embarrassment fades to the background, replaced by a mixture of relief and exhaustion. He wipes his face and blows his nose, then goes through his bag to find his glasses and the case for his contacts. It's a time-wasting tactic--he knows Washington is going to want to talk, to know what's going on, and he knows he has to tell him, but god, he's done so much already tonight.

Finally, with his contacts away and his glasses on and his face clean and his crying tapered off, he sits up and looks at Washington. He swallows the lump of shame that immediately makes itself known.

"I'm really sorry, sir," he says quietly.

"Alexander, there's nothing to be sorry about," Washington assures him. "You didn't do anything wrong, except for maybe not letting us help you before now. But even that--we're here now."

"I just need him to be okay," Alex whispers.

"And he will be. John will get through this, and he'll probably need your help and understanding. We won't lose him over this, I promise you. But this goes beyond John. _You_ need to be okay too, you know. And it's okay if you're not. I know how stressful and frightening this can be, I know what it does to your brain and your heart. And it needs to be addressed. You can't help him if you're also falling apart, Alex."

This is now the third time that someone has told him as much and he's almost ready to believe it. He's never felt like this before, so run down, so exhausted, so helpless. After the hurricane, after his mother died, after finding himself in America alone--all of those times, he was able to harness what he was feeling and turn it into action. He used it to fuel his dreams and ambitions and it worked. This is different. This is...there's nothing he can do. He understands that now. Nothing he can do or say will change the thing in John that's made him like this all of a sudden. 

That doesn't mean he's going to stop. He may understand it, but he doesn't have to accept it.

"I can't stop," Alex says.

"I'm not asking you to," Washington says. "I'm just asking you to think about what you need, too. To make sure your needs are being met before you try to meet someone else's. Think of it like...." Washington pauses and frowns, then looks up at Alex again. "You don't play sports or know anything about cars, do you?"

Alex shakes his head.

"I thought as much," Washington sighs. "Okay, think of it like this. You want to be the net that's there to catch Laurens when he falls. Well, if you don't maintain the net, if you don't repair it and make sure it's in top condition, he could fall through a frayed portion of the net and bring the entire thing down with him."

It's a simple enough concept and something that Alex has known, sort of, academically, but he's thinking back over all of his interactions over the past few weeks and finding a lot of frayed areas.

"I...can see that, yeah," he admits. "There have been some...I've been short with him a few times. And I've had like...probably more panic attacks than is generally helpful. And I haven't been sleeping. Or eating. And I guess I haven't been getting much work done because I've been so worried. And I may have completely neglected my website for like, a month. And I yelled at you and Burr and...."

That's probably enough examples. Alex wipes his nose with the back of his hand and Washington hands him another tissue.

"That's precisely what I mean," Washington says. He sits back and crosses, then uncrosses his arms. It's so strange to watch him. The part of Alex that isn't mortified at his breakdown or shaken over John's behavior is stuck on how different this version of Washington is. Even when they're over for dinner or seeing him outside of work, Washington normally exudes confidence and authority. Sitting in his office, shifting awkwardly in his chair, there's something about him that's uncertain. There's something that's tired and uncomfortable and less polished than usual. More approachable. "I hope we're close enough now that I can trust you with personal confidences?"

Alex nods. "Probably kind of past that point, what with me losing my shit on my boyfriend in your living room and then having like, a total breakdown." He blushes when he says it, though he's struggling to sound nonchalant.

"Good point," Washington says, not unkindly. "Well, then I don't mind sharing that Martha has struggled in the same sort of way it seems that John is struggling. She suffers from depression and anxiety and some PTSD brought on by her late husband's death. We agreed to share some of the details with you boys after your last visit, but they're largely her stories to tell. They're also not the stories that you need to hear, I think. The story that you need to hear is that taking care of someone so mired in their own dark thoughts can be...difficult." He snorts and adds, "Very...fucking difficult."

"John is worth more to me than 'difficult,'" Alex says, venom reflexively creeping into his voice, even though he knows that's not what Washington means.

"I know he is," Washington says in the same calm, even voice. "I'm not saying he's not. I'm saying that I've been where you are. I'm saying that it's okay that it's hard. That admitting that it's hard, that you're struggling, doesn't mean you love John any less or you're any less devoted to him. And when you do have those dark moments where you wonder if it's worth it or despair that the rest of your life is going to be stuck in this melancholy or get angry that he can't just seem to be logical and get better--well, that's okay and it's natural and that, too, doesn't mean that you love him any less or are any less devoted to him."

Alex feels split open, his face hot as he listens to Washington repeat all of his darkest secrets, his worst thoughts from the past few weeks. He ducks his head, as if he can hide from that creeping shame, but Washington reaches across the space between them and taps his shoulder until he forces himself to look up again.

"I mean that, Alexander. It's natural that you would think that, even if you know, deep down in your heart, that this will pass and that it's always worth it."

Alex takes a shaky breath. "I know he's sick," he whispers. "I get it. I know he can't help it. And I don't want to get mad at him. But."

"But you can't help your feelings, your reactions," Washington says.

"Exactly," Alex says. "I wish I could. I wish I was better, that I could be that for him--"

"You are _plenty_ , Alexander." Washington takes both of his shoulders and holds him steady. It's a little uncomfortable, honestly. "You can't make him better through persistence alone. There's no magical level of support that will snap him out of it. You can support him and you can love him, but getting better is on him."

It feels like a betrayal to accept that, to acknowledge it, but Alex knows it's true.

"I would do anything if it would help," Alex admits, staring at his sneakers again. "Anything. I'd break the law. I'd give up anything he needed me to give up. I'd go anywhere he wanted. And I know that's not enough. I know that's not how it works. But, fuck, I wish it was."

Washington lets go of his shoulders and sits back again.

"I know, son."

He slips his fingers under his glasses to rub as his eyes again. The skin around them is rough and tender and burns at his touch. Fuck, he can't remember the last time he cried like this. Once he's wiped his leaking eyes, he looks back up at Washington and tries to regulate his breathing again. He needs to be practical about this. He needs to look at this like any other problem that needs solving, or rather, look at Washington like any other resource at his disposal. Washington has knowledge that can help him. He needs to stop crying about things he can't change and focus on things he can change.

He straightens out his posture. "What _can_ I do?" he asks. "There has to be some sort of...something that I can do that will help him."

Washington smiles, just a little. It's this strange little quirk of the lips that he gets sometimes, like there's something hilariously funny that only he can see. It's aimed at Alex more than he would like it to be.

"The first thing is to take care of you," he says. "Sleep and eat. Take walks. Get out of the house and spend time on your own to clear your head. You don't have to be hovering around him all hours of the day. And if you're honestly afraid of what he might do when he's alone, find someone else to sit with him so you can have a few minutes to clear your mind and center yourself. Secondly, of course, is taking care of his base needs. Make sure he sleeps and eats and showers. Ask him how he's feeling. Ask him what he needs. Remind him that you're there to help him and that you're not going anywhere. And, finally, when things get bad--when you start to feel helpless or you're afraid that you can't take care of it yourself, get some help. Come to me. Go to Gilbert or Hercules when they're home. You're not a failure because you can't take care of him all by yourself, Alexander. No one should have to bear a burden like that."

Alex blinks hard. He's not going to start crying again. He's _not_.

Pushing aside his own shortcomings, he asks, "But how does that help? How is that--I'm doing most...well...some of those things. And it's not--I want to _help_."

Washington smiles at him sadly. He looks...old. "Sometimes you reach a point where you've given all the help you can give. Sometimes you have to wait until someone is ready to help themselves."

It's not what Alex wants to hear, but it's maybe what he needs to hear. It's maybe what he needs to be confirmed. He's done all he can do--the rest is up to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week we switch back to John's PoV!


	16. Part Two: VII. if you wanna make peace then you gotta find the pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Washington shares a story with John and John shares a story with Alex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning! Happy Wednesday! You made it! We're just about out the other side of all the angst and badness. That's not to say that there aren't going to be repercussions from this summer radiating out into the next stories, but that's a whole other kettle of fish.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Discussion of suicide  
> \- Discussion of depression  
> \- Discussion of PTSD  
> \- Discussion of child death
> 
> Thanks, as always, to **weesaw** and **a-classic-fool** for wading through 150,000 words of this story to make it so much better than it would have been otherwise ♥

John made Alex cry.

It keeps repeating in his head, a dull hum in the background as Alex's words continue to whirl around in his brain. He made Alex cry. He made Alex cry.

His stupid, impulsive boyfriend who wears his heart on his sleeve and never holds anything back has been holding all of these things back for weeks for John's sake and now he's sobbing so hard he can't speak. 

This is all John's fault. It's all John's fault all over again, just like everything else. He can't do anything right. This one thing he'd hoped he could do this past year, this one simple thing that had seemed so easy, so natural, and he's fucked it up. He can't even love Alex the way he deserves. Fuck.

His own tears are threatening again as Washington takes Alex and leads him away. Away from John, who's just going to hurt him again, who's done nothing but hurt him for a month. Just when John thought things were okay, just when he thought that maybe he deserved a future with Alex....

But no. He proved that quickly enough. He doesn't deserve a future, not when he stole James' future away from him. Not after John forgot about him entirely.

"I'll...go put on the kettle," Burr says. John had completely forgotten that Burr was there and now he feels ten, twenty times worse. The last thing Alex would want is to appear vulnerable in front of Burr, and look what John drove him to.

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Washington says. "Then, if you'd rather go--George and I can take it from here."

"Yes, ma'am," Burr says, and slips past John and towards the kitchen. John watches him go, numb, and Mrs. Washington crosses to him and gently touches his shoulder.

"Sweetie, go sit down on the couch," she says. "I'm going to go get the first aid kit and I'll be right in."

She stands there until John follows her direction and forces himself to sit down, then, satisfied, disappears down the hall.

John considers leaving. It would be easy to get up and slip outside and walk away, just march down the street and keep on going until he can't walk any further. It would be better for everyone that way--Alex and the Washingtons and even Burr, who's spent his fucking summer cleaning up John's messes. God, it would be better for everyone.

Nelson nips that plan in the bud by trotting into the room and immediately going to John's side. He hops up on the sofa, which John knows for a fact isn't allowed, and rests his head on John's lap, sighing a doggy sigh. John, abruptly, is afraid he's going to cry again.

When Mrs. Washington returns, she doesn't say anything about the dog, which is John's first sign that she means business. She sits on John's other side and starts to take care of his injuries, cleaning each scratch methodically and applying bandaids and butterfly bandages where appropriate. She tuts at some of the more gruesome ones, pulling out bits of glass or plaster, but they're all superficial. Opening his eyes to see that jagged blade of glasses sticking out of his shoulder he had hoped, maybe--but no. After all of that shit, this is all he has to show for it; he'll be sore as hell tomorrow morning, but he doubts any of these lacerations will even scar.

He couldn't even do that right. Of course he couldn't.

Once his injuries are seen to, Mrs. Washington disappears again and then reappears with a clean t-shirt, a wet washcloth, and a comb. She hands John the washcloth, which he uses to carefully wipe the worst of the blood and grime from his face and neck, and then reaches over to pull the elastic out of his hair. Some leaves and plaster and dirt rain down once his hair is free, and she nudges him to the side so she can gently begin to comb it free of tangles and debris.

John starts to cry again.

"Oh, honey, it's okay," Mrs. Washington says. "Everything's going to be okay, I promise. It might not feel like it now, but it will get better."

She takes the box of tissues from the end table and hands them to John, who can't even manage a thank you. He blows his nose and wipes his eyes as Mrs. Washington finishes with his hair and replaces the elastic gently. She leaves the comb and the washcloth on the coffee table and then offers him the t-shirt.

"I can go in the other room if you want," she says, "but I'd rather take a look and make sure there's nothing I missed, if that's okay with you."

John nods, silently, and peels off his filthy t-shirt.

Mrs. Washington makes a tutting noise and John knows it's because of the yellowing bruises scattered across his chest and shoulders. He's going to have more tomorrow, but aside from a few superficial cuts on his back and gouges on his arms, there's no lasting damage. The wooden frame of the panes on the french door he flew through forced the glass to largely break outward and away from his body. If only the stupid thing had thrown him through the bay window instead.

Satisfied, Mrs. Washington motions for him to put the clean t-shirt on. John does so and then settles back against the couch, petting Nelson again, focusing on the dog as hard as he can.

Mrs. Washington settles next to him and brushes his hair back. It's such a mothering gesture that the tears well up again. He misses his mother. He misses James and he misses his mother and he misses when things were simple. He misses life before he fucked everything up for everyone. He misses having someone to take care of him. Alex had been that, these past months, but he's gone and ruined that now, too. 

His chest aches and his throat aches and a headache is blooming behind his eyes. He wants to go to sleep. He wants to go to sleep and stay asleep forever.

"I know you probably don't want to talk now," Mrs. Washington says so softly and delicately that John can't help but relax some of the tension in his shoulders. "You maybe _can't_ talk. But I just want you to know that when you're ready to talk, there are so many people all around you who are ready to listen. Alexander loves you, you know that, but if you can't talk to him...if you'd rather talk to someone who's been through something like what you've been through, my door is always open and you can always talk to me, honey."

John shifts his gaze over to her at that, his heart pounding hard in his chest. His throat burns first with shame--she knows, Mrs. Washington knows the worst thoughts that go on in his head--and then with disbelief. How could someone so kind and strong ever understand this? How can someone like Mrs. Washington--caring and thoughtful and unshakeable--ever do anything that could make them feel this way?

"Truly, John, I know what you're going through, at least in part, and I know when I was in the same boat, it helped to have someone to talk to who understood," Mrs. Washington continues. "If you don't want to talk to me, I can give you some numbers of people I know, counselors and friends both, but I really do hope you'll talk to someone."

"I've done things," John whispers. "I've...this is what I get. It's what I deserve."

"Oh, honey, no," Mrs. Washington insists. She pulls him towards her and into a hug. He wants to resist, but his desire to be comforted wins out. Instead of pushing her away or going tense in her arms, he lets himself be held. "No matter what you did, you don't deserve to feel this way. No one does. It took me a long time to understand that, so I'm hoping to save you the trouble.

John doesn't say anything. He's so fucking tired, he doesn't have the strength to protest.

"You know I was married before George, right?" she says after a moment. John nods--it came up at Thanksgiving, in a ridiculous story Patsy was telling about the lengths Washington went to in order to win her and her brother over. "When Daniel died, I didn't think I'd ever be able to get out of bed again. I was devastated. The kids were so little--Patsy hadn't even started school yet. My sister tried to help out, but she had her own family and there was only so much she could do. When it became clear to her that I couldn't fully take care of myself and my babies, they went to stay with her for a little while and I moved in temporarily with my best girlfriend."

Mrs. Washington rubs his shoulder and lets that sink in for a minute. It's very quiet in the house. Outside of the little huffs of breath from Nelson and the ticking of the hall clock, John can only barely hear the murmur of conversation from down the hall, where Washington disappeared with Alex.

That almost sets off another wave of tears, unbidden. God, he hates crying. He hates crying, he doubly hates crying in front of people, and he misses being strong enough to hide his tears. Maybe he was never strong. Maybe it's always been a lie he told himself to feel better about the shitty choices he's made in his life. They didn't make him stronger, they just plastered over his failures.

"So," Mrs. Washington says. "I slept on the bed in her guestroom and I cried and I stared at the ceiling and then finally, after a couple weeks, when I was so tired of feeling so much despair, I let her talk me into seeing a grief counselor. Daniel died in June and I was enough of myself again to have the kids and myself both back in school for September."

John finds his voice. "It's not the same," he tells her. "You didn't--that wasn't your fault. He died and you were allowed to feel sad."

"It didn't feel that way at the time," she tells him. "It felt like I was letting my family down. Letting his memory down. And then, even as things got better, they didn't get as good as they should have. I worked hard to make it seem like I was on top of things, to take care of my family. I was on the PTA and I ran after school programs and coached Jacky's soccer team, but everything still felt suffocating. I still cried at night, sometimes. And then I met George. And I thought, 'maybe this is it. Maybe this is what I'm waiting for. Maybe the hole I've been trying to fill with work and the kids and every activity I can think of will be filled with him now that I'm in love again.' But it didn't work. The feeling didn't leave. If anything, I felt worse because here I was, two years after Daniel, and I couldn't fix myself. I couldn't be right. I couldn't be right for me, for my babies, for my fiancé...."

And then there's quiet again. John rises and falls as Mrs. Washington breathes. Distantly, the kettle starts whistling and is turned off--Burr is still here. Maybe later he'll be able to force himself to care about that, to be mad or embarrassed or ashamed or concerned. For the moment, he just focuses on breathing and the comforting half-embrace from Mrs. Washington. 

It's still not the same thing. What happened to her, it's not the same as him. She doesn't have a reason to feel this way the way that he does. But even just knowing that she _feels it_ , that she understands wanting so badly to do something and not being able to force yourself to follow through, that she understands the dread of knowing that people who love you expect more from you and you can't provide it, that she understands feeling so buried by despair that you can't imagine what it's like to breathe freely. “Suffocating,” she said, and that's it, exactly. 

"I'm sorry," he says, though he's not sure what he's sorry for. That she's felt this way. That she was so sad. That everything was so much.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she says. "It was so hard. I didn't think I would ever come out the other side, but George, bless him, could tell that something wasn't right. And it took months and months for me to admit it to him, even though I knew he knew. I finally broke down over wedding preparations, just burst into tears because the florist ran out of the right color ribbon for my arrangements and that particular pattern was discontinued. I wept like I hadn't since Daniel died, over silly ribbon, and finally I let him talk me into seeing a counselor again. I thought I should be better, that I should be over it, but she told me three things."

She sits up then, slowly, and nudges John up as well until he's looking her in the eye. He feels exposed and nervous, but she doesn't give him time to look away, she just keeps going. "The first is that some things we just don't get over. No matter how much time passes, the hurt will always be there. Sometimes it's quiet and sometimes it's loud, but there's no shame in being overwhelmed by it sometimes. The second was that some people's brains don't need a reason to despair. I have an illness and I can't will it away any more than I can will away a broken leg. Sometimes time will ease the hurt some, but without treating it, there's always the chance it won't heal right or it will just be worse the next time it comes back. It's manageable and treatable, but in order to do those things, I have to acknowledge it. And the third was none of it was my fault. Feeling that way was wasn't a failing, it wasn't a character defect. It wasn't something I did, but just a quirk of biology, and there was no shame in treating it."

These are all things that John knows, intellectually. Alex has anxiety problems--the occasional panic attack and, John would wager, PTSD. And never in a million years would he blame those things on Alex, who should be praised for living through them and still being as smart and wonderful as he is, not looked down on for it. 

But none of that is the same as what's happened to John, as what John's done. There's a difference between surviving something terrible and being the person who makes those terrible things happen in the first place.

Mrs. Washington keeps going, though. "And I do treat it. I've taken medications on and off over the years, depending on how stable my emotions have felt at any given time. I do yoga and I spend time doing things I love with people I love. I try to be open about how I feel. I remember to ask for help. And I remember that asking for help isn't failure--just because things get bad again doesn't mean I've done anything wrong and there's no shame in leaning on those tools again when I need them."

John sighs and closes his eyes. He's just so _tired_.

"Honey," she says more softly, "I know this is hard to hear, hard to believe. I know your brain is telling you that this might be true for me, but you're really sick or broken and nothing can fix you. But please believe me when I say that's just your illness. And when you're ready, when you reach that point where you can balance your life well enough to take a breath and take those first steps towards recovery, I will be right here, ready to help however I can. So, so many people love you and are happy to help however they can. George and Gilbert and I, of course, and your Alexander, who would move heaven and earth if you asked, I think. It might not be today, but when you can let yourself ask for help, we'll all be here for you."

"I don't know what to say," John mumbles, because he feels like he should say something and words like _thank you for trusting me with that_ and _we appreciate all you do for us_ and _I'm sorry you ever have to feel like this_ are all clumped together and frozen in his throat.

"You don't have to say anything, sweetheart," she says. She strokes his hair again and John wonders, for just a moment, what his life would be like if things were different, if his mother had survived, if she had been there to nurture him and the other kids, if she was there to stop him. If his feeling in his chest, this warm knowledge of Mrs. Washington's affection, wasn't quite so foreign and distant.

"I think I heard the kettle go off earlier," she says after another minute. "How would you like a cup of tea? And, if you're up for it, the dogs still need to go out."

"Yes to both," John murmurs. He scratches Nelson behind the ears and then nudges him up. "Thank you, ma'am."

"There's nothing to thank me for, John," she insists. "Come on, then."

Burr is still in the kitchen, reading something on his tablet. Eventually, John's going to have to confront the fact that he and Alex both went to pieces in front of Burr's eyes, but he can put it off a little longer still. He sits at the table, staring down at the surface as Burr glances up at them.

"The kettle should still be hot," he says to Mrs. Washington quietly. "I need to have a word with Dr. Washington and then I'll be on my way."

"Take all the time you need, Mr. Burr," Mrs. Washington insists. To John, she says, "Do you like camomile?" John nods without looking up. "Why don't you take the dogs outside and I'll bring your tea out to you when it's ready?"

"Thanks," John says. He doesn't deserve her kindness.

He takes the long way around the table to avoid Burr. He doesn't even have to call the dogs--Nelson's been following him around since he got here, sticking close and trying to offer comfort, as if he can tell John's not himself. Blue has been under the kitchen table, but he gets up when Nelson gets up and moves more quickly when he sees John approaching the back door.

Blue runs out into the yard as soon as the door is open, but Nelson turns back towards John and waits patiently on the porch, tail wagging.

"It's okay, buddy," John says. "Go on and have fun." He shoos Nelson towards the yard and he goes, albeit slowly. John sits on the top step and watches the dogs run around, trying hard not to think about all that's happened this evening. He knows that things have split open, that the fantasy that he's been trying to cling to all month has evaporated, which is unsurprising--it was never very well-crafted to begin with. Alex is going to want answers, if he wants to talk to John at all after all of this, and John's going to get his heart broken by the end of the week, if not the end of the night.

All he wants is Alex. It's stupid and pathetic and he knows it. He knows that he should be more concerned about a dozen other things, starting with his family and career, but after the past year, all he fucking wants is for Alex to be with him. Alex is the only thing that can calm the cacophony in his head some days, the only still point in the whirlwind of his life. He'll give anything if it will mean Alex will stay. He's not proud of that, but he can't deny it.

The porch door opens and Mrs. Washington walks carefully over to him and then hands him a steaming mug. It's too hot to be drinking hot tea, but it's suddenly exactly what John wants. He murmurs his thanks and then Mrs. Washington strokes the top of his head and disappears back inside. The tea is so warm he can barely sip it and the heat of the ceramic mug is burning into his hands, but he welcomes it. If he focuses on the heat radiating out through his skin, he doesn't have to think about anything else.

It's not long after Mrs. Washington leaves that the door opens again. John doesn't have to look up to recognize that tentative tread. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the railing as Alex sits down. He's not next to John--he's about five feet away, close enough to touch if they both put their arms out, but not close enough to feel his body heat. Not close enough to seek comfort.

"Hey," Alex says softly.

"Hi," John makes himself respond, makes himself open his eyes and glance over at Alex, then quickly away. That simple word takes more energy than it should--everything in him wants to curl up and run away. He keeps seeing Alex's face as he started to yell, the devastation, the heartbreak. He did that. He hurt Alex. And the best thing to do would be to run far away to protect Alex from the shit that's sure to rain down on him if he stays with John, but John can't manage it. He can't make himself stay away.

"Baby, I'm so tired." Alex sounds...broken. John squeezes his eyes shut tight. "Why are we here? And don't give me a smart answer. If you give me some bullshit answer I swear to god I'll...." Alex trails off and then snorts quietly. "Well, we both know that's an empty fucking threat. If you give me a bullshit answer we'll just enter back into this stupid fucking cycle of ignoring all of this shit and be stuck in it until we die."

That hurts, though he's not sure Alex intended it that way. It hurts, knowing he's gutted Alex like this, made him just a shadow of his normal self. Alex, who normally badgers everyone and anyone until he gets his answer, Alex who never lets up. He made Alex give up.

He swallows, hard, and says very quietly, "There's more to me and my dad and my family...to why we are this way...there's more than you know. More than I ever wanted you to know. Things I've done...there are things I've done that I never wanted you to know about." It's about as much as he can say without tearing down that wall and letting it all out.

"Why?"

John searches for an answer, staring out into the night, to the place where the trees disappear into darkness he can't make out. "Because...because more than anything else in this fucking world, I want you to keep loving me." His voice almost cracks on the last word and he has to pause to collect himself. "And I was afraid... _am_ afraid...that if you knew some of these things you might...stop. Or, at least, it would change."

" _John_."

John puts his tea down and studies his shoes. They're still covered in mud and plaster. He probably tracked dirt all over the Washingtons' house. Just one more way he's inconvenienced them and ruined their night.

He shouldn't have said that. He shouldn't have told Alex even that much, because now he'll want to know more. He won't take John at his word, he'll push for details and then he'll find out everything in John's past and he'll start looking at John differently, he'll move on, he'll find something better and the fucked-up part is that he should. God, if John really loved Alex, he'd tell him everything so he could go find someone worthy of his time, but he's too selfish to let go, not yet. Even though things are already fucked. Even though Alex probably came out here to tell John to get his shit together or get dumped or, worse, to find somewhere else to live and work, someone else to cling to needily. 

Everything he touches turns to shit. He'll figure that out, eventually.

Around them, the crickets chirp and the dogs pant and roll around, their collars jangling. A car rumbles down the street, the headlights momentarily illuminating the backyard and reflecting off the still water of the pool.

"I went to go live with Ned and his parents when I was thirteen," Alex says, apropos of nothing. "My mom had died like, four months beforehand and as if that wasn't enough, I'd been bumped around between family members ever since. And the Stevenses had been fighting for me--I know they had, Mr. Stevens would say it every time he checked in on us. 'We're trying very hard to bring you home, Alexander.' But, anyway, the Stevenses had been fighting for me and that had been where I wanted to go at the start, you know? When they tried to ship us off with my mom's cousin, I had begged them to let me stay. I had been sleeping on a cot in Ned's room for the week or so it took them to sort out the paperwork and shit and it almost made things feel normal. Like it was just another sleepover and I'd be going back to my house soon. But no, they fucking dragged me and James away and sent us to live with Peter and when he died, they sent us to live with his dad and when _he_ died, they finally let Mr. Stevens have me. But, god, those four months fucked me up. I wasn't super attached to Peter or his dad, but it's still just...really fucked up, having your guardians die, one after the other."

Alex takes a deep breath and lets it out. John steals a glance at him, just a sidelong look until he's sure that Alex isn't looking at him, so he can turn his head just a little. He's sitting on the top step with his feet resting on the next step. His knees are bent at that angle and he's leaning forward, resting his weight against his thighs. He looks ten years older than he did just three weeks ago. The bags under his eyes are darker and larger, his expression is haggard and drawn, and something about his eyes and the wrinkles on his forehead...he's weary. He's worn out.

John did that to him.

Alex starts talking again, and John looks away quickly, closing his eyes as he listens. "So, I was kind of worried about the Stevenses, which is dumb, but...you know, grief, magical thinking, all that shit. And in addition, I was just fucking tired of moving around, of being tossed from place to place and shoved into this stupid idea of what a family should be over and over again. 'Sure, you've only met him once before, but Cousin Peter is _family_ and you'll be happy there, you'll see.' 'We need to keep you with your _family_ , we don't want to break up what little of that you have left.' What they were doing, really, was fucking up my connection to the only people I sort of thought of as family anymore. So when I did finally get to the Stevenses house I was beaten down and exhausted and jaded and just...I was tired. And Ned was so fucking excited, he was helping me bring my things upstairs and unpack into my new room and I just couldn't take it. I couldn't take his happiness, it was driving me crazy. And he said to me...he said something like, 'I'm so excited that we're brothers now, Alex!' and I just...fuck."

John chances another look. Alex's head is bowed down low and his hands are in his hair.

"I just lashed out at him," Alex says. "I just--I snapped, 'We're not brothers, we're never going to be brothers, so get that thought out of your stupid head. I'm just another one of your dad's projects now and my real family is all dead.'" He laughs, hoarse and painful. "Fuck, it was _Ned_. Just, the nicest, sweetest, most fucking innocent asshole I've ever known. And he was crushed, I could tell, but he just said, 'Okay,' real quiet like, and left the room. He didn't say anything to his parents, I don't think, just acted like nothing happened. Or almost like nothing happened. It was never the same after that, you know? I calmed down after a few weeks, but I never apologized. I didn't know how, it felt like too much time had passed, I was thirteen and a shithead...I have a million excuses. And we were okay, but we were never the same. And, fuck, the shittiest part is that I wanted it. I wanted to be his brother. I've told you that before. And he put it out there for me because he knew it was what I wanted, what I needed, and I basically just...slapped it away."

Nelson, done running around, comes back over to the porch. He climbs up to the top step, behind John's back, and curls around him. Nelson's a good dog.

"I'm telling you all of this," Alex murmurs, "because it's the worst thing I've ever done. I don't regret a lot and I'm not ashamed of much. And I talk about my regrets and my shame and stupid things I've done. I try to look at life as like...a learning experience. I think better when I talk through things, so it's stupid to hide my problems when saying them out loud makes it so much easier to understand them. But this...this I've never told anyone. I don't talk about it, ever. It is absolutely the worst thing I've ever done in my life, my biggest regret, the one thing that still sometimes pops into my head and makes me sick at three a.m. when I can't sleep. This is my biggest, worst secret and now you know it."

The stairs creak and John looks up. Alex is sliding over towards him until he's right there, close enough to touch, close enough that John can see the plaster still dusting his shirt and hair and smell the sweat and sage clinging to his skin. Then Alex is touching his cheek with such delicacy and care that John has to shut his eyes again.

"You are...." He can tell from the tone that Alex is thinking very carefully about what he says next. "Very dear to me," he decides on. "I don't care what you did or who you were or what happened. I don't care what your biggest and worst secret is. I am promising you with all my heart and soul that I _know you_ and nothing in your past could make me love you any less. So I'm going to ask just one more time. I'm not going to stop trying to help you--I will do that until I am physically no longer capable of doing so. But I'm just going to ask this directly one more time: what's wrong, John? What happened? I promise I can help. I promise nothing you tell me could break my heart because it can't break anymore than it already has watching you in so much pain."

John feels the first tear on his cheek before he even realizes he's crying. His head is throbbing with the reality of what he's put Alex through. He broke his heart. He always knew he would hurt Alex, he knew from day one, but he didn't realize it would feel this devastating. He hurt Alex. He broke Alex and he broke his heart, this one good thing keeping him tied to this world.

He can't do it anymore. He can't. It's too hard. Everything is too hard and too much and he's so, so tired. He's not strong enough and what does any of it fucking matter? 

He just wants someone else to take charge. Just for a minute. Just for long enough for him to catch his breath. He can't breathe and he can't think and it's either that or--

"Oh, baby," Alex murmurs. That one tear has turned into two has turned into a cascade down his face. He's crying again. He's so tired of crying, but he was never strong, so he might as well give into all of these weaknesses now.

"I'm sorry," he sobs, and then Alex's arms are around him, pulling him close and holding onto him. "I'm so sorry. Alex, I--" He coughs and chokes on a sob and Alex rubs his back and hugs him harder.

"It's okay. It's okay, sweetheart. Let me help you. Please, baby, let me help you."

And it's just easier to give in.

"I'm so tired, Alex," he tries to say in between ugly, stuttering breaths. "I'm so tired and I can't do it anymore, I can't do anything, I can't think, I can't sleep, the world is too small, everything's too tight and too close and I can't get away from my mind and I can't stop thinking about James and I just don't want to do it anymore. I can't keep going, it's too much, everything is too much and I don't know how to stop it and there's all of this noise and fog and _darkness_ inside of me and around me and I'm drowning in it and I can't get away from it and it's infecting you now and...and...."

It's easier to just cry after that, to let himself be a loud, ugly mess. He doesn't know the last time he cried like this. Maybe the hospital after he woke up all those years ago, when they told him about James and he fell to pieces. Certainly not in recent memory. His meltdown in the hallway outside campus security was the worst he had cried since he was having regular panic attacks in college and every few months he'd have to lock himself in the bathroom or huddle under his blankets to hide his heaving sobs, but this is ten times as bad. It feels like years pass between the moment that Alex starts holding him and the slow slide from full sobs into rough, heaving breaths as he comes back to himself. Alex is humming, rubbing his back and holding onto him even though the position must be killing his back. 

John feels awful--his entire body hurts, his lungs burn like he's run a marathon, his eyes are grainy and dry, his throat is raw, his head is throbbing in time to his racing pulse. But he also feels....

'Better' isn't the right word. But the world isn't crushing him any longer. All of the feelings are still there, but there's enough distance for him to take a breath, to exist in the closest thing to quiet he's had in his head in ten years. It's all coming out now, for better or for worse, and Alex is right here with him, holding onto him. He trusts Alex to take care of him, even in these moments when he can't take care of himself. Especially then, maybe.

"God," he says, taking a shuddering breath. "Fuck. I didn't mean for that to happen."

"I'm glad it did," Alex murmurs into his hair. 

John shifts until he's sitting fully on the stair again and not half on top of Alex. Alex shifts too--he doesn't move away, but he does roll his shoulders and stretch and change positions. John's head stays resting on his shoulder.

"Well," Alex says after a few minutes of quiet undisturbed by tears, "now we've both lost our shit in front of the Washingtons, so there's that."

John laughs. It's not even funny, but it's close enough to funny that it sets him off into almost nervous laughter that rolls through him. His insides are wobbly, still, and the laughter makes his hands shake. Alex laughs too, resting his forehead against John's temple and for the first time in weeks, the smallest ember of hope flares to life in John's chest. They might be okay, after all.

"We need to talk more," Alex says as the laughter dies away. 

John swallows. "I know. But I--"

"--don't want to do it here," Alex finishes for him. God, he missed the ease of having Alex read his mind, of being able to read Alex's. "We can go home. I don't want to do it here either."

"Okay," John says, though he makes no move to get up.

Alex presses his lips to the crown of his head and sighs. "You're all I have, John," he says. "You're all I have in the world. Most of the people I've loved, my family--they're almost all dead." He leans over and kisses the corner of John's mouth. "Don't join them, okay? Don't--I need you here."

John doesn't say anything--he's not sure he can make that promise just yet. But he does take Alex's hand and squeeze his fingers and maybe that's enough for just this minute.

*

Eventually, Mrs. Washington opens the back door and very quietly calls the dogs back in. She's obviously trying not to disturb them, but they both look up at her when the door opens.

"I'm letting them in for the night, boys," she tells them. "You two are welcome to stay here as long as you need."

"I think--" John stops and looks up at Alex, who nods for him to continue. "I think we should probably be heading home soon."

"As long as you're ready," Mrs. Washington says. She's been so kind to them. More than kind--she shared so much of herself with John, opened herself up to him, confessed her own vulnerabilities purely as a way to comfort John through his. It almost makes him want to cry all over again, but he manages to swallow it down.

Alex stands slowly, pulling John up after him by the hand. Standing just reminds John how sore his body is, how cramped his muscles are. He's filthy, too, new shirt and washed face notwithstanding. He starts to move towards the door, but Alex stops him, wrapping his hand around John's upper arm. He takes John's face between his hands and inspects it for a moment. John meets his eyes without wavering for the first time in weeks. He doesn't have any secrets any longer, not really. The rest is just details, details that are going to wring him out and leave him small and ashamed, but he knows he can't hide them anymore. After all of this, Alex deserves them.

Done with his inspection, Alex tugs John to him and kisses him firmly.

"You're a fucking shitshow, but you're my shitshow," he says. "I fucking need you, okay? I love you. Stop doing stupid shit."

"That's a really broad thing to promise," John says, and now it's Alex's turn to laugh at something that's only really funny-adjacent. His laughter brushes up against hysterical, but he manages to get himself under control and hug John fiercely before letting him go and nodding towards the door. "Let's go home, okay?"

"Okay," John agrees, and takes his hand.

Inside the kitchen, Washington has changed out of his house clothes and into field clothes. He's filling a thermos with coffee and he has two gear bags on the kitchen table. John remembers, abruptly, that they not only abandoned a haunting, but they left all their tech and the department van there.

Before John can apologize, Washington says, "Not another word on it, boys, there's enough going on for you as it is. I'm going to meet Friedrich and Mr. Burr, but I'm going to drop you two off at home first."

John's car is still at the school, but driving home from the school sounds so exhausting right now that he's happy to take a Lyft over there in the morning to pick it up if it means he can be in his bed faster.

"Thank you, sir," John says. He wants to apologize for more than the haunting--for the whole night, the whole month, maybe--but the words evade him for the moment. It's easier to just let Alex put an arm around his waist and lead him through the house towards the front door. Mrs. Washington is waiting for them there with a strong hug and a bag of tupperware containers full of food.

"Call me whenever you'd like, John," she tells him, and he nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

The drive home is quiet. Washington doesn't put on the radio and Alex and John both sit in the back seat. John normally avoids the backseat when he can--he gets spectacularly carsick sometimes--but he doesn't want to let go of Alex's hand. Alex does successfully urge him to lay his head down in his lap for the ten minute length of the drive, which helps with the car sickness as well as his still-jangling nerves. Alex buries one hand in his hair and he lets himself drift in the flashes of street light illumination.

At their apartment, Washington says, "Have a good night, boys. And Alexander--call me in the morning."

"I will, sir," Alex says.

He nods at each of them and then gets back into his car. They watch, just standing on the sidewalk, holding hands, until he's pulled out of the parking lot.

"Let's get inside," Alex finally says, tugging him towards the door.

They were last in their apartment about twelve hours ago but it feels like years have past. It's jarring to see their dirty coffee mugs on the counter and realize that the dregs haven't even had a chance to dry out completely. 

"I need to take a shower," John says.

"Me too--I'll join you." 

John gets the impression that Alex isn't joining him to save time so much as to keep John in his direct line of vision. Normally that would chafe, but right now John can't help but take comfort in it. He knows he shouldn't lean on Alex as a crutch, that he already does it far too often, but after everything else that's happened tonight, he needs Alex's strength.

That's probably unfair, using Alex for support when it's so clear that Alex has been struggling to hold himself upright all on his own, but John's already established that he's not above being incredibly selfish when it comes to Alex. This is just one more drop in the bucket.

After his shower, he feels...well, again, 'better' isn't precisely the word he's looking for. But the prospect of facing Alex, facing this conversation, facing all they need to talk about seems so much easier now that he's comfortable and not covered in the grime of his bad decisions. He pulls on clean boxers and one of Alex's old baggy Beekman and Cruger t-shirts once he's dried off, and then sits on the edge of the bed, trying to figure out what comes next. 

Alex joins him on the bed and, surprisingly, lays down on top of it. He props himself up against the pillows, laying on his side, and John tentatively follows him. He closes his eyes and tries to muster up the strength to thank Alex for everything, to apologize for the past month.

Alex beats him to talking, though. Of course.

"I haven't...been there," Alex says, with the foreign caution that's been coloring his voice more and more this month, "but I've read things. And I know that sometimes hearing people tell you that you're important doesn't mean anything, is impossible to believe. But sometimes it helps. So, don't doubt that you are, okay? You're important to me--you're my whole fucking world and I love you. You can't leave me, okay? I can't do that again."

They both know he's not talking about breaking up, though John still carefully doesn't think of the word. There's a difference between that and what he's been feeling. That's different and clinical and this is just...well, it's something else.

"I don't want to hurt you," John says, because he doesn't know what else to say without lying. "I love you too, and I would never want to hurt you."

Alex reaches out and takes one of John's hands, staring down at it as he inspects John's fingers, feeling each individual knuckle and pressing their fingertips together.

"So, I know I told you my mom died when I was twelve," he says, finally. "And I told you I was tossed around to family members before ending up with the Stevenses. And that's true, technically, but the bouncing around was...."

Alex sighs. The long breath twists across the space between them, a soft exhalation that smells like their toothpaste.

"The first person we were sent to live with, the person who was listed as our next of kin, my mom's cousin, Peter?" John nods. He's heard Peter's name before, and heard Alex refer to him with sharp disdain, but never any details. Alex is careful like that--even to John, the details of his life before America are always very specific or very broad. There are huge holes in his history that John is curious to learn but careful not to push. Apparently tonight he's not done filling some of them in. "He was...completely overwhelmed by the idea of taking care of a couple kids. Like...I have no idea why my mother chose this guy, he was useless and he had a lot of problems and taking care of us was pretty low on his priority list. I think...I don't know, he just spiraled out of control from the moment we showed up. It was fucked up and I was still just a kid even if I thought I was hot shit. I didn't know what to do or how to help or even that he needed help, but one day, my brother and I came home from school and he was dead in the back yard. He'd shot himself."

John sucks in a sharp breath. He opens his eyes. He knows his body has tensed entirely and the hot waves of shame that start at the top of his head and roll down to his toes must be so obvious to anyone who's looking at him, to Alex. He thinks, for a horrible moment, of young Alexander stumbling upon that scene. He thinks of what his Alexander would do if he came home to something similar now.

"Alex, I didn't know, I--" But he doesn't know how to end that sentence. Would knowing that have stopped anything that happened this summer? Is deliberately killing yourself different than recklessly putting yourself into death's path and leaving the outcome up to chance?

"Ssssh," Alex murmurs. He kisses the back of John's hand. "Shut up, I'm not done. So...this happened. And I was mostly so fucking angry. I was angry at my father for leaving and my mother for dying and Mr. Stevens for letting them take me away and, most of all, Peter, for being so stupid and so cowardly and for abandoning us. For not being strong enough." 

John squeezes his eyes tightly shut. It's all true. He's a stupid coward for even imagining--

"Sssssh," Alex says again, though John's said nothing more. "I was a kid and I was stupid. And I want you to know that now, as an adult, seeing you like this...I get it. I understand. And I'm not mad at you and I don't think you're stupid or a coward. I know you're smart, John, and you're so fucking brave and I love you so fucking much, and I just want you to know that--I was stupid to think those things, back then. To think of Peter like that. I can see you're hurting and I get it and it _kills me_ to know you're in pain. I would do anything for you. If you need to talk, if you need someone to remind you that you're here and whole and you have this great life and you're this incredible person--I can do that for you. Day or night or...whenever you need it. Whatever you need. No matter where I am and what I'm doing."

"Alex," John says, but his voice breaks and he's not sure what he was going to say anyway. Maybe that he doesn't deserve Alex, or that everything is so overwhelming that sometimes he doesn't know what he needs, or that it's been ten years and losing James still hurts and that's his punishment and he deserves it, or that sometimes he just doesn't want to feel it anymore.

"It's okay," Alex says. "You don't have to say anything. I just want you to know it. I meant what I said before: you're all I have, you're my whole world. I need you. And I will never stop doing everything I can to help you however you need it."

John turns his hand in Alex's grip so that they're palm to palm and he can interlock their fingers. He doesn't trust himself to talk right now, but he hopes this is enough. He hopes this conveys at least some of it, at least a hint that John needs Alex as much as Alex needs him. More, probably. Because Alex is a rising star and brilliant and beautiful and perfect and what is John? What the hell is John next to that?

Alex deserves better, so much better than John. But if John doesn't have the strength to push him away, he at least deserves to know the truth.

It takes John a minute to work his throat clear enough to speak.

"You told me the worst thing you've ever done, the thing you've never told anyone before," John says quietly. "Well, here's mine. This is why--this is--" He struggles to put it into words. "There's a reason my dad, my siblings...there's a reason we are the way we are. And I've never told anyone before, not even Mattie. She knows...some stuff. But not the details."

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to tell me," Alex says. "Baby, you don't owe me anything."

"I owe you everything," John says. "Do you remember when you told me your brother's name was James?" If Alex is confused or startled by the question, it doesn't show.

"Sort of," he says. "I remember you were weird about it."

"Yeah," John says. "Because I had a brother named James, too."

John listens to the steady, comforting whisper of Alex's breathing.

"'Had,'" Alex finally says.

"Yeah."

Alex kisses the back of John's hand again, but doesn't say anything else. John almost wants to laugh--this is the quietest he's ever heard Alex.

"We called him Jamie sometimes," John says. "When I was little, sometimes my family, my parents and my sister and brother and our extended family, they would call me Johnny. So we were Johnny, Marty, Henry, and Jamie. It was so dumb, but my mom thought it was cute. But, anyway. James. Um. He was closest in age to Henry, but so close that Henry thought he was a baby. I was almost five when he was born, though, so as he grew up I was...more tolerant of him, I guess? I played with him and watched out for him and read to him. He really...loved me a lot. I mean, he loved all of us, he was a great little kid, but he really looked up to me. I was his favorite."

John counts his heartbeats and breathes deeply. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to say this. But he has to. It's the right thing to do.

"John," Alex says finally, "you really don't have to--"

"I do," John says. Breathe in. Breathe out. "I do."

"Okay."

It takes John another minute to collect himself.

"The summer he turned nine was...rough," John says. "My dad was starting to increase the pressure on me to achieve. He wanted me to focus more on the sports I played and to join more civic clubs. He wanted me to quit art. He wanted me to start spending a few days of the week going into his office with him since school was out. I was thirteen and I was starting to figure out I was gay and I was angry at my dad and scared about my future and missing my mom and basically, you know, having a shit time of puberty. And one day--"

All the air leaves his lungs in a rush. He knows his hands are shaking. He has to do this. He has to say it. He has to explain. And then Alex will know and even if it changes things at least it will be _over_.

"One day," he continues, despite his wobbling voice, "Dad was out and Martha was at a friend's house and Hen was...god, I don't even know, and Mellie was with the nanny and I was supposed to be watching Jamie. And I don't even remember what I was doing that was so fucking important--" He can hear his voice rising and shaking, but it's out of his control now.

"John," Alex says again. "John, it's okay, it's--"

"Shut up, Alexander," John manages to say. "Just...." He squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten, then counts to ten again, tries to force himself far, far away from this story, tries to make himself as detached and distant as he can, as if that might make it easier, make it hurt less. As if that might make him less guilty. "I was supposed to be watching him. And I wanted to...do something else, I don't even fucking remember, so when he asked if we could go down to the river and play, I told him to go down and I'd meet him there in a little bit. We played there all the time growing up. I thought he'd be okay. I thought--"

It's not working. He can't divorce himself from this. It's stupid and cowardly to even try. This is what he did and he has to live with it. He tries to keep his breathing even as he presses on.

"A little while after I sent him away I thought it was weird he hadn't come back to bug me again yet, so I went over there. And as I was getting closer I just...suddenly I knew. I couldn't see him and I knew and I ran over and he was on the ground on the river bank. He'd hit his head on a rock and there was so much fucking blood and I didn't know what to do. I don't _remember_ what I did. I know I tried to move him, I just have these memories of being covered in his blood...whatever I did, I must have gotten someone because they called an ambulance and they got Jamie to the hospital, but I don't remember any of it. I just remember blood everywhere. When I closed my eyes it was all I could see for weeks. It's still sometimes all I can see."

It's all he can see now, that horrible memory playing over and over and over again, sprinting up to the edge of the river and looking over with his heart in his throat--

Alex tugs him closer, lets go of his hand to embrace him. He presses their foreheads together and touches John's cheek, pulling him back into the moment. Alex's face is bloodless pale, his eyes wide and searching. 

"Hey," he says, his voice gentle, "you're here. I've got you."

"I know," John says. And in this moment, he does. 

They sit in the silence for a moment. John has to look away from Alex's face--it's better to not look than to see pity or disgust or shock there. He stares instead into the distance over Alex's shoulder. The story isn't over yet. "They got him to the hospital but it was really too late. He was in a coma for about a day and he died the next night. I barely remember any of it. Martha told me later that I passed out and that I had to be sedated when I woke up. I didn't even get to say goodbye. Not that I deserved it." He exhales, the breath shaking as his insides tremble. Almost done. "If I hadn't ignored him, if I hadn't sent him away, if I hadn't _moved_ him.... Everything was just...it was even more fucked up after that. I was alternately a shitshow and a zombie. I couldn't focus, I didn't want to do anything but lie in bed. Everyone--my dad--it was just...clear that everyone wished it had been me instead of Jamie. _I_ wished it had been me instead of Jamie."

"John--"

"They didn't want to look at me. I could barely look at myself. I was in therapy for a little while, but my dad put a stop to that after a few weeks. I think maybe he was afraid I was talking shit about him to my therapist. Or maybe he just thought it would be easier if I killed myself."

"Jesus, John."

He needs to get out the end of it. Just say it and be done and collapse or cry or go to sleep and forget tonight ever happened. "In August my dad came into my room and told me to pack my bags--he was sending me to boarding school a year early and instead of Exeter, I was going to Switzerland. I had a week to pack and then I was on a plane. He didn't even let the other kids come with us to the airport to say goodbye." 

He tips his head down and presses it into the space between Alex's shoulder and neck. At least Alex hasn't pushed him away yet. That's one person, at least, who hasn't abandoned him for killing his baby brother.

"That was it. We never talked about it again. I made myself forget everything about it in Geneva. I threw myself into the paranormal and I made shitty romantic decisions and I barely talked to my dad. I didn't come home for more than a couple weeks at a time until I graduated, and that was only for two months until I started at Harvard. I barely came home from Cambridge, either. I just thought, maybe if I did everything he wanted, maybe if I was this person he insisted I be, it would be worth it. I could justify my being alive and Jamie being dead. Maybe my dad would forgive me. Or maybe I'd forgive myself. Until I couldn't do it anymore. Until I got so fucking crazy and so fucking selfish that I threw it all away to come here. And I love it here, I love our work, I love our friends, and I love you more than anything, but fuck. I threw away fucking years of planning and preparation for law school to do what I wanted _again_. That's all I ever do, ignore everyone else's needs and wants to serve myself. That's what got my baby brother killed and I still can't fucking stop doing it."

And that's it. That's everything. John wants to collapse, but there's nowhere to go; he's already curled up in bed. He already has Alex holding on to him to keep him from falling to pieces.

"The day your dad called...." Alex says.

"Ten years," John says. He laughs, though it's hollow and twisted. "Or, ten years and one day. The anniversary, I wasn't even thinking about him. I'd lost track of time. I didn't know what day it was. I was in Washington's office with you, reading stupid old parapsych books out loud. I was feeding the dogs and kissing you in the lab and getting drunk and laughing on the steps to the building. I had forgotten. Not only did I throw away this life that I owed him to make perfect, but I threw it away and forgot about him altogether. So my dad called to remind me."

"Fuck him," Alex spits, with a flash of the familiar anger that always makes itself known when John's father comes up.

"It's not his fault," John says. "It's no one's fault but mine. James died and I got this life and I don't even want it half the time. I wish they would take it away from me and give it to him instead. Which is just...could I be a fucking worse person? I killed my baby brother and instead of honoring his memory and dedicating myself to changing the world or doing something monumental I'm...me. And I don't even want to be me. I lived and he died and I wish it was the other way around."

"Don't _talk like that_." Alex pulls him away, nudges his chin up so they're looking at each other again. "John...you were a child. You were a child watching a child and a terrible thing happened, but it wasn't your fault. It was an accident. It was a horrible thing that happened and it feels worse and worse every day because you didn't deal with the trauma back then--taking you out of therapy, I'll fucking gut your father if I ever meet him--"

"Alex!"

"I don't care!" Alex snaps. "How could he--"

"He had four kids to deal with, Alexander!" John says, harsher than he intends. "There were four of us, my mother was already dead and he had five kids who had barely processed that and then there were four kids mourning their baby brother! Mellie wasn't even six yet!" He doesn't know why he's defending his father. Probably because for all the shit his father gives him, all the mind games he plays, this has always been John's truth--that he deserves at least some of it because he killed his brother.

Alex watches him warily and John feels like shit all over again. He's scaring Alex. He's done enough scaring Alex to last a lifetime. "Okay," Alex says. "But even leaving him out of it--you have trauma. They've done studies about this shit--childhood trauma changes your brain, it alters your brain chemistry. It was an accident, what happened, and you've been suffering ever since. None of it is anything you deserve."

John slumps forward. He's too tired to keep talking in circles about this all night.

"Baby," Alex says, "if James loved you half as much as you think, you have to know that he wouldn't want you to feel this way. He'd want you to pursue your dreams and be happy. He'd want you to follow your passion and live your life the way that _you_ want to live it. You're brave and you're fierce and you're a fucking genius. You're a great artist, you're a good friend. You're a fucking fantastic boyfriend. And you're fucking gorgeous, which has less to do with the life you're making for yourself but, hey, I'd be proud of those genes if I was your brother."

John laughs, almost against his will. Alex grins at him, then cups his jaw, his expression determined.

"You are _good_ and _kind_ and _beautiful_ and _perfect_ ," Alex says, fierce. "You're an asshole and impatient and kind of petty about shit and you have a short temper and you can be a condescending classist prick, but that doesn't make you any less of the other things. Anyone would be proud of the life you're leading. And if they're not, the problem is with them."

When Alex says it like that, it's almost enough for John to believe it. And it's more than enough to _want_ to believe it.

He settles against Alex's chest again because it's easier than figuring out what he wants to say and how to say it in a way that won't scare Alex even more. _Hearing you talk like that makes me want to want to live_ is maybe not what Alex needs to hear right now.

"You should sleep," Alex says as he slips his hand up under the back of John's t-shirt to curl against his spine.

"Yeah," John says. "I'm fucking exhausted."

"But," Alex continues, "we're gonna talk more in the morning."

John groans with reluctance, but reluctance is different than denial, so maybe he's already doing better than he was last night.

The lights in the living room are still on, but the few extra bucks on the electric bill aren't worth moving, not tonight. The air conditioner is humming in the corner and Alex's chest rises and falls under his cheek and for once, Upstairs isn't ruining the moment with an impromptu dance party or a screaming match.

"I love you, Alexander," John whispers quietly. Alex has said it a hundred times tonight, a thousand times this month, using his love like a carrot on a stick to lure John out of his fog. He wishes it worked that way. But if nothing else, he can remind Alex of this, remind him that even if his brain and his heart are warped and broken, even in the midst of this sea of bile and darkness that he's drowning in, that remains the one truth.

And when Alex starts to cry, John does him the kindness of pretending he doesn't notice. It's the very least he can do after all of this, and it's not like Alex hasn't earned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: the conclusion! Finally!
> 
> Also, I've said this before on tumblr, but I'd like to put a general gentle reminder/note that everything we know about John's childhood, family, and father is filtered through John's perspective. Which is to say, I know it's popular in this fandom to turn Henry Laurens into a mustache twirling homophobic villain, but when it comes to this verse, there's a little more nuance that we're not necessarily getting right now because we're only hearing John's side of the story.
> 
> JUST SOME FOOD FOR THOUGHT.


	17. Part Two: VIII. i am hopeful, should i be hopeful?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes on an Apology Tour and shares some hard truths with Alex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, this is...the last full chapter! Time! Is weird!
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for sticking with this story for so long, friends. Honestly, I know it's been something of a trial, between the subject matter and the hiatus, and I appreciate it SO MUCH.
> 
> I'm going to post the epilogue tomorrow, probably, so look out for that, along with some info about what comes next.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to **a-classic-fool** for her amazing amazing amazing beta job and to **weesaw** for the same thing, plus letting me talk her ear off about this dumb verse like, every day.
> 
> Thanks again, friends! I'll have more to say tomorrow ♥

When John wakes up, his whole body feels heavy and sore, but the fog of exhaustion that's been working in tandem with the rest of his demons to slow him down this month is mostly absent. He's tired, but he isn't afraid he's going to fall asleep into his breakfast. The sun is high in the sky already and he's alone in bed, sprawled in the middle of the mattress, blankets twisted around him. He's replaced his grip on Alex with a pillow, hugging it against his chest and he has to work himself free of the bedding in order to get up without falling onto the floor. 

He makes a stop in the bathroom and then wanders into the kitchen where Alex is leaning casually against the counter, peering down at the stove. He's in his boxers and a Columbia t-shirt that's at least two sizes too big with a little frown of consternation creasing his forehead. John is overcome with _missing_ Alex, or, at least, a realization that he has been missing him. He's been so detached, so far away, that even though Alex has been right there, pulling him back the whole time, he feels like he's been out of reach.

"Alex." He almost doesn't mean to say it, and it's so quiet that for a moment, he thinks Alex hasn't heard him. But then he freezes, straightens up, and turns around. His hair is a rat's nest and his glasses are sliding down his nose and his expression keeps warring between joy and caution and never before has anything John's seen burrowed into his heart so quickly.

Before he can even open his mouth to speak further, Alex is hugging him hard enough to almost knock him off his feet. "My favorite shitshow," Alex murmurs, and rocks him back and forth for long, quiet seconds.

When he releases John, he asks, "How are you feeling?"

John takes his time in responding, assessing himself thoroughly. "I'm not sure," he finally says. "But I _am_ feeling. Which is. Maybe not something that's been true for a while now."

Alex seems to accept that answer as positive, because his expression doesn't waver. He takes both of John's hands and pulls him forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then releases him and turns back to the stove.

"GWash dropped your car off this morning," he says. "He and Mrs. Washington. They also dropped off a quiche, which is some kind of egg pie, I think. It sounds like rich white bullshit, with apologies to Mrs. W."

"It's French," John says.

"Why do people in America love French shit so much? Not every dumb French thing is classy," Alex says. "But Mrs. W made it, so I'm sure it's great."

The conversation is almost surreal after the past twenty-four hours.

"Anyway," Alex continues, "I think our oven's fucked, it's not cooking evenly. Or warming up. She said it was already cooked. I can't believe she stayed up last night making us a fucking breakfast pie, that woman is a saint."

"She is," John agrees. He moves past Alex to get to the coffee maker and freezes when he sees a vase of sunflowers on the island. As he struggles to find something to say, to articulate what he's feeling, Alex comes up behind him and puts his arms around John's waist.

"That's from me," he says. He sounds almost shy. "I mean, they brought them over but...it's because I asked."

John is still speechless.

"I've been trying to remember what you said that day, you know, to like, give a little speech when you woke up," Alex says. "I'm not sure I've nailed it, but I'm gonna give it a whirl: You're tough and strong. The world can't get rid of you yet. You're beautiful. And, baby, I promise if you just keep turning a little while longer, you'll find the sun again soon."

Fucking _Alex_. John has cried enough to last ten lifetimes and then he has to go and do something like this.

"And," Alex murmurs, "pretend I came up with a real good dick joke for the end here."

John chokes on a snort of laughter and turns around to shove Alex away. He's laughing too, and keeps laughing even as John grabs him around the waist and pulls him close for a kiss. Or two. Or three.

"Our French egg pie is gonna burn," Alex whispers between kisses. 

"We'll blame it on the oven," John says, and kisses him again.

The quiche is fine when they pull it out a few minutes later, though Alex is right in that one side is much browner than the other. They eat standing at the counter, and though John tries to draw it out as long as he can, eventually their plates are clean and the leftovers are in the fridge and the dishes are in the dishwasher and their coffee is topped off and Alex is giving him the _look_ that means it's time to talk.

They sit on the couch, close but not touching. John slouches into one corner and Alex sits on the next cushion over, cross-legged and facing him. 

"Last night I was the good boyfriend," Alex says. "Today, I'm the asshole who harrasses you until you answer my questions."

"So, my regular boyfriend, then," John says, and Alex smiles with such real joy that John is a little startled. He hadn't realized how compromised his sense of humor must have been--it was dour if a dumb comment like that is making Alex so happy.

"Yeah," Alex says. "So let's start--should I be calling someone?"

John reads his meaning. 

"No," he says firmly. "I--" He chooses his words slowly and carefully. "I admit that the past few weeks I've been putting myself needlessly into danger." Alex rolls his eyes, but he hasn't said the words either, so fuck him. "That--the thing that...drives that...I'm...not okay, exactly, but--"

He runs his hand through his hair, tangled and knotty after sleeping on it wet. God, how to explain this? How can he explain the difference between what he always feels like and what he's been feeling like and what he feels like today?

"You know I'm always...that I've always struggled with...my brain." Alex nods. "It's usually a fog. A weight. And some days it's clearer than others, some days I can breathe. And other days it's harder. And recently it's been like...I could barely breathe at all. But today...it's still hard, but there's room. It's not all dark. It's not crushing me." He pulls his hair. "This isn't making sense."

"No, it does," Alex says. "I follow, I think."

"It's always going to be there," John says. "But sometimes it's background noise and sometimes it's deafening."

"It doesn't always have to be there," Alex says quietly. "There are pills. There are people you could talk to. I could help."

"I--no," John says quickly. "No, let's not--I don't want to talk about that now. I'm okay. I'm as okay as I always am."

"You're not always that okay," Alex says, but John glares at him and he waves it off. "Right, right, tabled for now."

It'll be tabled forever if John has anything to say about it. "The point is," John continues, "I have these thoughts sometimes and they're not...there's no intent there. And there may have been...intent, recently. But today, I'm--they're back to normal. Or close to normal. The intent is gone, at least. It's background noise again." He's mixing his metaphors, but he hasn't had enough to drink to get into much more detail.

"I just want you to be safe," Alex says. "I just want--I want you with me, always. For as long as I can. And I'll fight for you, even if it's you I'm fighting."

"I know," John says. He takes a deep breath. "And you do still...want me with you?"

Alex blinks at him. "...what?"

"You're not--it would make sense," John says. "It's a lot. All of this. I ruined your summer. I dragged you down with me. I hurt you."

"John...."

John holds up his hands. "No," he says. "I did. I know I did. Because I hurt everyone who gets close to me. I told you that the first night you told me you loved me. I hurt everyone. And I hurt you. And I wouldn't hold it against you if you--"

"What?" Alex asks flatly. "Left? You think I'm going to leave you?"

"It wouldn't be unwarranted," John says carefully.

"Fuck 'unwarranted,'" Alex snaps. "Jesus christ, did you see how much work I did this summer to keep you alive? You think I'm gonna turn around and toss you aside like garbage?"

"No...." John is rapidly losing control of this situation.

"Fuck that," Alex says. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here, forever, me and you and the dumb dog you're gonna make me get some day and maybe some kids. We're gonna grow old and we're gonna be parapsych rockstars and you're gonna fucking drive me crazy with saying things like, 'Oh, _quiche_ , it's _French_ ' and talking in a baby voice to the dog and leaving your fucking jeans right in the path from the door to the bed, but I'm gonna put up with it because I love your dumb fucking face so much it makes me literally crazy when I can't help you."

They stare at each other in a stalemate.

"Okay," John finally says, and Alex's grin of triumph could light up the room. He tackles John and pulls him down to the couch and they wrestle a little. John lets Alex win, even though he and Alex both know he could pin him with one hand if he put any effort into it, because sometimes it's nice to be held in one place by someone who has no intention of letting go.

They smile at each other, open and goofy and so _normal_ that John thinks they might be okay after all. It's a long, sweet, beautiful moment.

"I'm just saying, they sell quiche at Starbucks--"

"You rich prick," Alex groans, which starts the wrestling all over again.

And John doesn't mind ruining that moment. He knows, at least for right now, that there will be many more to follow.

* * *

They spend the rest of the day at home, just the two of them lazing around the apartment. Alex makes a few phone calls, all with John still sprawled across his lap, making no effort to hide them. It's a quick call to the Washingtons to say that John's awake and things are good and they're taking the day off and then a quick voicemail to Herc saying there's no reason to rush home, but they're both happy to see him if he still wants to make the trip. He calls Ned, too, which is a little surprising, and tells him to go home. John wants to ask him about that, but he's sure the reply will just make him feel guilty all over again, so in deference to keeping the peace, he keeps his mouth closed.

After that, it's a long afternoon of playing dumb XBox games and watching shitty movies on Netflix and working on a couple fluff pieces for the website and ordering takeout for dinner. Upstairs periodically interrupts them, but even that seems silly today, like a private joke that makes them alternately laugh and roll their eyes and try to drown them out with _Grand Theft Auto_.

John finds, as the day goes on, that wanting to want to feel better starts to shift into actually wanting to feel better. That thought still brings an onslaught of guilt, of _you don't deserve to feel better_ , but it's a little more muted than it was yesterday, just enough to give him room to push it from the forefront of his mind to the back.

It's not much, but it's something.

Later in the evening, while Alex is fighting to stuff everything into the dishwasher they haven't run in what's probably weeks at this point, John slips away to the bedroom to get his phone. He really should start on the chores of being better--he should start his apologies, begin responding to emails and texts that have sat unanswered for weeks, maybe listen to the voicemail his sister Martha left near the beginning of the month. He puts the odds at about 50/50 that he can manage to do any of those things at all--the truth is, most of those messages will probably be marked as read without being opened, buried in his inbox so he doesn't have to confront his shame--but he should probably at least look at numbers of unread texts and emails so he can brace himself for the chore.

He doesn't get that far, however, because he has a new message waiting for him when he wakes up his phone.

John slowly opens the message and sits on the edge of the bed. He stares at it for a moment, and then slowly types a response.

The response is almost instantaneous.

The usual impulse to deny his problems and insist nothing was wrong is still strong, but John thinks back to the sincerity in Ned's gaze as he told John about how badly he wanted a brother, how much he cared for Alexander. 

He hesitates for a moment before adding one more sentence.

There's a long pause, during which John can see Ned starting and stopping responses half a dozen times. Just as he's decided that he fucked everything up majorly with that last comment, Ned starts typing and stays typing.

John forces himself to breathe deeply and swallow the lump in his throat. He doesn't know what he did to deserve all of these people--Alex, the Washingtons, Ned, even _Burr_ \--looking out for him. In fact, he knows he doesn't deserve any of them at all. But until some fate comes to its senses and takes them all away from him, all he can do is be endlessly grateful.

He's too exhausted, when he puts his phone back to sleep afterwards, to bother with looking through his email or missed texts. Instead, he plugs his phone back in and returns to the kitchen, where Alex is finishing up with the dishwasher. It's so overpacked that half of the dishes probably aren't going to get clean, but John doesn't care about that at the moment. Instead, he wraps his arms around Alex from behind and squeezes him tightly.

"Hey, what's up?" Alex asks, glancing over his shoulder.

"I just can't fucking believe how lucky I am," John says. 

Alex twists around without pulling away until he's facing John and can embrace him properly.

"Yeah, well, same," he murmurs against John's temple and squeezes him back just as tightly.

*

Alex goes to sleep with him again, and while John's used to going to sleep alone and doesn't mind Alex's tendency to stay up late working, he has to admit there's something sweet and comfortable about going to sleep next to someone else and waking up to see them first thing in the morning. He likes squinty morning Alex, whose face is covered in pillow creases and whose hair is all over the place. He likes curling a hand around Alex's hip where his shirt has ridden up and stroking his fingertips against the smooth, warm skin there. 

"We have to actually work today," Alex mumbles, blowing some wild strands of hair off of his face.

"Hm?"

"I have a...thingy...for the...thingy...." Alex yawns and nuzzles against John's bare collarbone. 

"My boyfriend, the genius writer," John says.

"Fuck off," Alex says against his skin. "I have an interview for the blog. I'm meeting him at that hipster doughnut place in Madison."

"I keep meaning to check that place out," John says. He rubs up and down Alex's spine, walking his fingers over each notch.

"Here's your chance," Alex says. "Their website is a fucking trip."

It's so _normal_. It's like the last three weeks never happened.

"I might drop you off and hang out at the lab, I've gotta get some shit done."

Alex goes tense against him and the illusion of normalcy is shattered. He looks up from John's shoulder, trying to mask the concern in his eyes.

"By yourself?" he asks.

John purposely ignores the implied question. "Burr or Lee might be there. Washington will probably be in and out."

"I just mean...." He trails off and chews on his lower lip for a moment. "After everything, I would feel better if you were with me. Or at least someone else we know."

John wants to roll his eyes or wave Alex off or get offended, but...well, he brought this on himself.

"I can text you," John says. "Every like...fifteen minutes so you know I'm okay."

Alex is chewing on his lower lip again. "That's stupid," he says. "I trust you."

"I wouldn't blame you if you didn't," John admits. He rubs Alex's back again. "How about you text me? Whenever you want. If you're nervous or bored or if the dude you're interviewing is wearing an egregiously ugly tie. Plus, I'll drop you off and pick you up."

"You don't owe me this," Alex says, his eyes darting back and forth like he's trying to read something hidden in John's expression.

"I know," John says. "But I'm offering."

"I probably won't text!" Alex warns him, but he can't hide the way his whole body sags with relief.

*

The hipster doughnut place is packed when they finally roll up, but Alex's interview--the director of some new documentary that John vaguely remembers them watching a couple weeks ago--has already secured them a table. They wait on a line that snakes around the store, giving them ample time to decide on their order and then re-decide whenever a flavor sells out.

"Salted caramel pretzel," Alex says at one point. "Washington's secret vice."

"We should get him one," John says. "I can drop it off. It's the fucking least we can do, right?" John owes Washington a lot. And Mrs. Washington. And, fuck, even Burr. He starts to make a list of everyone he cares about that he's been a total shithead to this month, and by the time they get up to the counter, he's prepared quite a hefty order.

"I can't believe you're spending thirty fucking bucks on doughnuts," Alex says, shaking his head. 

"Well, I've gotta buy back the affection of a lot of people, and you're the only one who will let me suck your dick to do it," he says. It makes Alex laugh and the girl at the counter snort and the girl in line behind them sigh theatrically.

John pays for their doughnuts and their coffees and goes over to the coffee bar to wait for them. Alex joins him, close enough to be his shadow, hovering at his elbow as the barista calls out orders for _Jacques_ and then _Daniel_. 

"Are you sure you don't want me to text?" John asks, noting how close Alex is standing.

"I'm positive," Alex says. "I just...you know me, I'm an anxious nut about stupid shit."

"It's not stupid," John insists, tangling their fingers together.

"Angelica! Lawrence!"

John sighs and rolls his eyes, even though he's used to it, taking the two boxes of doughnuts and leaving Alex to pick up the coffees. They weave their way over to the table where Alex makes introductions ("You're Athenodorus' Jersey guy? You're like, twelve." John can _feel_ Alex mentally adding the dude to the list of twitter accounts he's going to trawl when he finally comes out as Athenodorus.) and then turns to look at John, frowning.

"I can stay," John says, giving in.

"Go," Alex insists. "I'm being an idiot."

"You're not." He kisses Alex goodbye and picks up his coffee and the boxes of doughnuts. "I'll be here to pick you up. I love you."

"Love you too," Alex says, and John makes himself go without looking back.

He initially planned on getting some lab work done with this hour and a half, but he's afraid if he doesn't force himself to apologize to people now, while it's on his mind, he'll never actually do it. It will go the same way as all of his other ruined relationships--an awkward, festering reminder of what an asshole he is to the people important to him.

His first stop is Molly's apartment. She lives in a townhouse not far from campus and he's not sure if he wants her to be home or out. He really does need to apologize to her, but he's mortified every time he so much as thinks about what happened the day she confronted him about his fight with Lee. It makes him a little sick and he likes Molly too much to let it poison their relationship.

After switching some things around, he puts two doughnuts in one of the bags he snagged from the shop and forces himself to get out of the car and ring the doorbell.

John shifts awkwardly on the front stoop, running over a script in his head. _I'm sorry, I was an asshole, I've been going through some stuff, that's not an excuse just an explanation, you didn't deserve that and I didn't really mean it...._ It's a stupid, simple thing but he's afraid to fuck it up, afraid of pushing Molly further away just when they've started to become close.

After was seems like an eon, Molly's roommate pulls the door open. John's met him once before--a tall, skinny white kid who plays the cello or something--and he offers a wan smile.

"Is Molly home?" he asks.

"Yeah, hold on," the kid says. Instead of going to get her, he just bellows, " _Hey, Molly!_ " over his shoulder. John tries not to roll his eyes, and soon enough, Molly is trudging into the foyer. She frowns when she sees him.

"Hey," John says quietly. "Can we talk?"

"That depends," she says. "Are you gonna yell at me again?"

John winces. "No," he says, "I'm going to apologize profusely and give you doughnuts." He holds out the bag. Molly looks at it and then back up at him.

"Cool," she says. "Come on in."

Her roommate disappears and she leads John through the living room and into a room that might be a mix of a sitting room and an office. There's a loveseat, a desk, and five overstuffed bookshelves. Molly sits at one end of the loveseat and John sits at the other and hands her the bag. She peers inside and raises her eyebrows.

"We went to the new hipster doughnut place in Madison," John says. "The one on top is blueberry crumble and the one on the bottom is chocolate peanut butter."

"Holy shit, I'm tempted to forgive you based on the doughnuts alone," Molly says. 

"I mean, I've been stressing over an apology in my head the entire way over, but if this works for you...."

Molly shakes her head and puts the bag down on the coffee table. "Nope. Let's hear it."

John sighs. So close. "Okay," he says. "First off, I'm so fucking sorry for every shitty thing I did this month. Every single one of them. I could list them all for you, but even if I leave anything out, it's because I did too many shitty things to count, not because I'm not sorry for it."

"That's a good start," Molly says. "What the fuck has been up with you?"

John closes his eyes and scrubs at his face with the palm of his hand. "A lot," he admits. "It's been--there's been a lot of shit going on this summer. A lot of, like...emotional shit. On my part. Like, stupid, self-sabotaging shit. Family stuff and...fuck, just a lot."

Molly is quiet for just long enough that John starts to fear that she expects him to explain further. Before he can fully panic, she sighs. "You know you can talk to me about stuff if you want, right?" she says. "I know I'm not Lafayette or, god forbid, Ham, but we're friends. At least, I think we're friends."

"We are," John assures her. "And I...appreciate that. But it's just...not easy for me to talk about. Not even to Alex."

"Yeah," Molly says, "I hope you have one of these little talks planned for him too, cause you treated that dude like shit these past few weeks."

John's throat threatens to close up again. Tears prickle behind his eyes and his stomach ties itself in knots. "I know," he says, and he's horrified when his voice breaks halfway through. "God, I fucked up." He swallows hard against the emotion. He's so fucking sick of crying, of the unshakable exhaustion that comes afterwards. He envies people who feel better after a good cry--John just feels wrung out and used up.

"Oh, buddy," Molly says, and moves over so she can hug him. He squeezes his eyes shut and rests his head on her shoulder and prays for this storm of feelings to pass by without breaking. "Alex loves you like crazy, sweets. I mean, yeah, you were an asshole to him sometimes, but I'm guessing he knows all the ins and outs of your issues and has already forgiven you."

"He deserves someone so much better than me," John says dully. The darkness that's been pushed to his periphery for the past two days is starting to close in again and he has to fight to push it back. 

"Nah, he's an asshole," Molly says. John laughs sadly and pulls away, sitting up fully, tentatively hopeful that he's avoided another sobbing breakdown. He focuses on Molly, not on how he's wronged Alex. This is Molly he's dealing with now, and he has more to say, still.

"You shouldn't be comforting me," he tells her after he clears his throat to chase the last of the emotion away. "I'm here to apologize to you. I really fucked up, Molly. Everything I said was a lie--I'm really fucking good at finding people's weaknesses and tearing into them to defend myself. Everything with Maggie--I know how fragile that is to you and I never meant to use it as a weapon. You're so awesome, Mol--she should feel lucky to have you. And people fall for each other at different speeds; you'll be on the same page eventually. And, god, I'm so fucking embarrassed that I pulled the classist garbage about her being a bartender, as if she doesn't have her shit together better than the rest of us combined. I didn't mean any of that, even then. I was half out of my mind, but that's not an excuse--that doesn't take away the fact that I said all of it." Now it's Molly's turn to look away, rubbing at her eyes. "We _are_ friends--of course we're friends. I hope I didn't fuck that up, but I'll understand if I did."

Molly sniffles and sighs and then sniffles again, and John gives in and scoots closer so he can put his arm around her shoulders. She hugs him tightly in response.

"God, you were an _asshole_ , okay?" she says. He can tell she's crying. "You really fucked me up. I mean, I've had worse shit thrown at me, but never by someone who actually cared about me, you know?"

"I know," John says. He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want to hear this, but he knows he has to.

"Fuck." She sits up abruptly and wipes her eyes with sharp, quick movements. "We're cool, okay?"

"As long as you're sure--"

"I'm sure," she says firmly. "We're cool. Just don't fucking do that again, okay?"

"Yeah," John says. "I won't."

They talk for a few more minutes about inconsequential things--where Alex is, what's been going on with the ever-shifting dynamics of the von Steuben household, what the new kids at the labs are going to be like--and then John takes his leave. He has more names to cross off on his apologies list and he needs to ride this wave of relief and determination before his desire to never speak of any of this again takes over.

There are two stops he needs to make on campus, and despite the fact that he sees Burr every day, Lieutenant Lincoln feels like the easier one to start with. Campus is quiet as he heads over to her office, once again running through his apology in his mind. Lincoln is probably the person whose reaction will have the fewest personal complications--even if she's still pissed, she's fair and won't take anything out on him that he doesn't deserve going forward--but, jesus, he really wants her to like him. There's a chance she won't even be there, given that she normally works overnights and early mornings, but it's Friday and it's the last day of the month, which means there's a chance she's on the clock until noon, today.

As he approaches the door, he steels himself one final time and then ducks into the Campus Security office. He's either lucky or unlucky--Lincoln is at the desk, typing something into her computer. John hesitates just inside the door.

"Well, come in then, Laurens," she says without looking up, and he slowly approaches the desk. She taps a few more keys and then looks up. "I was hoping not to see you for a while."

"I know, ma'am," he says. "I hope it'll be a while until I see you again, too, no offense. I just wanted to drop these off and apologize." He puts a bag of doughnuts on top of the desk. Lieutenant Lincoln raises her eyebrows and pulls it towards her, then peers inside.

"Are you trying to bribe me?" she asks. John shakes his head quickly, holding his hands up in defense. Oh god, he's already fucked this up.

"No!" he says. "No, no, I just wanted to say thank you and apologize!"

"I see. With a cop joke."

"No!" John insists. "Alex and I were just at the new hipster doughnut place and I thought--I mean, they're supposed to be good, but we could have just as easily been at like, a regular coffeeshop or--"

"Relax, Laurens," she says. "I'm fucking with you. Chill out."

John exhales, the tension in his shoulders slowly bleeding out.

"Yes, ma'am," he says. 

"You're apologizing?" she asks. She pulls out a sugar-raised and gestures with it. "For what?"

"For being a total shit this month," he says. "For...making your job harder, I guess. I know you said the summer is usually quiet and I spent four weeks getting constantly into shit on your watch. And I'm sorry for that."

"It's my job, Laurens, you don't need to apologize," she assures him.

"No," he says. "No, I do. Because--I know I'm a hothead and I know during the school year it's not, like, out of the ordinary for Alex and I to end up down here? But this summer...it was really different. I was--I have been...um. Unwell, I guess. And that's no excuse, I'm not trying to excuse my actions, but to explain them." Lincoln takes a bite of the doughnut and chews slowly, watching him and gesturing for him to continue. "I won't get into the details--it really doesn't matter--but there were some things going on...with me...and I lost it a little. And a lot of what happened--fights and public drunkenness and our usual shit aside, it wasn't like me. And I don't want you to have the wrong impression of what I think is acceptable."

"It happens," she says when she stops chewing. She's still regarding him closely, her expression unreadable. "Don't worry about it. Is that all?"

"Yeah," John says, then-- "No. The other thing is, I know that some of this was...intense. And I understand it's going on my record. And that's fine, but if there's anyway you could keep Alex out of it? He was just trying to help me. The whole time, he was just there because he was worried about me. He tried to talk me out of half of it and you can put whatever you need to in my file, but he doesn't deserve it. If my funding gets cut, I understand, but if his gets cut because he was just trying to help me out...he's a really good guy and he's brilliant and he's gonna change the world and I can't be the one to take that away from him."

Lieutenant Lincoln takes another bite of doughnut and watches him calmly again. She's spooking the hell out of him, which is definitely her right after the way he acted over the past few weeks. He's just waiting for the barrage of letters--disciplinary hearings, code of conduct citations, probably assault charges....

She puts the doughnut down and wipes her hands on a tissue, finally looking away.

"Your boyfriend--he's Dominican?" 

"Uh, no," John says. "Why?"

"His Spanish sounds Dominican," she says, looking back up at him.

"He...grew up in the Caribbean and I think there was a big Dominican population in his city?" John says hesitantly. "He spoke French at home, though."

She nods.

"He's a good kid. A smartass who thinks he's tougher than he is, but a good kid," she says. "You're a good kid too, usually."

"I'm really sorry," John says again.

"I know," she says. She gets up from her desk and walks over to the filing cabinet against the wall, taking a stack of folders out of the basket on top. "Lee finally graduates week after next. And once he's no longer a student at MUNJ, his open cases get cleared from the system."

"Um, okay?" John says. She sits back down with the stack of files, dropping them next to her computer with a quiet thunk.

"Whoops," she says. "Looks like I accidentally lost his complaint at the bottom of this pile. Might take me a while to go through all of these."

"...what?" John asks after trying for a long, silent moment to parse what she just said.

"You know us ladies," she continues. "We can't do anything as fast as a man can. And, like I said at the start of the summer, technology is bullshit. Files get lost all the time."

"Lieutenant Lincoln...." John says, but he's not sure what to ask, what to say, what's even going on.

"Laurens, Lee is a rich, misogynistic, homophobic bully," Lincoln says, looking back at him. "You've been a goddamn mess this month--some of it's been really dangerous stuff. I don't care about getting you in trouble for stupid shit that didn't hurt anyone but yourself. I don't care about playing out some vinidictive asshole's revenge plot against two poor queer kids younger and smaller than him. Have you got your shit together now?"

"I--" John rubs the back of his neck. "I'm getting there. Alex is helping."

"Good," Lincoln says. "Now, scram. And the next time I see you and Hamilton, I expect it to be because you're locked out of the parapsychology wing or because you picked a run of the mill bar fight at the Frog."

"Yes, ma'am," John says. He blinks a few times. This is...not how he was expecting this meeting to go, but he's not going to ask too many questions. If this gets him--and, more importantly, _Alex_ \--out of a disciplinary hearing or financial aid penalty, he's not going to argue. "Thank you, ma'am."

He turns to leave campus security quickly before she can change her mind.

"Thanks for the doughnuts, Laurens," she calls after him, and John allows himself a smile as he heads back out to cross campus and find Burr.

Burr is, unfortunately, not alone in the lab, and of course it's Lee who's with him. Thankfully, though Lee glances up at him and sneers as he walks in, he seems to be focused on his work for once and doesn't actually say anything to John. 

"Hey," John says to Burr, who looks up from his workstation at the greeting. For a split second, his eyes widen in surprise, but soon enough he's back in his usual even expression.

"Laurens," he says carefully. "Do you need something?"

He's suspicious, not that John doesn't deserve it. "Yeah," John says. "Can we talk for a minute?" He jerks his thumb over his shoulder towards Washington's office, and Burr nods and follows him across the lab, settling into one of the guest chairs in front of Washington's desk while John closes the door. John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then starts by putting a bag of doughnuts on the desk in front of Burr.

"For you," he says. "I owe you...fuck, I don't know. An apology? Unending gratitude?"

"For what?" Burr asks carefully. He peers into the bag and, apparently satisfied that the doughnuts aren't a joke, folds the top over and sits back.

"For...everything. For saving my life time and again this summer. For trying to take care of Alex even if he was being a shit and told you to get lost. For going out of your way to try and get me help even though I don't think you even like me that much." John could go on, but that feels like a good place to start.

"It was nothing," Burr says. "You were obviously having issues, Hamilton was obviously in denial. Regardless of my personal feelings, you're a decent parapsychologist and an excellent photographer. It would have been a waste to lose you." John rolls his eyes. Typical Burr answer. "Plus, I'm sure you would have done the same for me."

"You are?" John says. "Because I'm not."

"I am," Burr says firmly. "You don't give yourself enough credit."

That's...almost a compliment. Wow.

"The point is," John says, "I'm grateful that you were there for Alex when I couldn't be. And I was pissed as hell at you for interfering while it was happening, but shit. He needed someone. And even if he was just telling you to fuck off, at least you were acknowledging his needs." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Fuck, I fucked up his summer so badly."

"You did," Burr agrees. "But, against good judgement, he appears to love you. And knowing how you two are, I'm sure you're already forgiven and you two are already back to being clingy and annoying, as usual. Hell, I'm surprised he let you out of his sight for this long."

John automatically pulls out his phone to check for messages, even though he hasn't felt it vibrate since he left the doughnut shop. Nothing new has come through, but he decides to be proactive and says, "Hold on a second," then opens up his phone and shoots off a quick, _♥ ♥ ♥_ to Alex.

 _My star ♥_ , Alex sends back. John smiles down at it then puts his phone to sleep and shoves it back into his pocket. 

"Sorry," he says to Burr. "Anyway. That's all I wanted to say. Sorry I was an asshole, sorry you had to pick up my messes, sorry for anything Alex threw out in an attempt to protect me. Thanks for taking care of him."

"Don't mention it, Laurens," Burr says, not unkindly. He picks up his bag of doughnuts and slips back out into the lab, which leaves John with only one more stop on his apology tour of Morristown.

Both Washington and Mrs. Washington's cars are at the house when John pulls up outside. He can hear Washington calling out commands to Nelson from the backyard, so he skips the front door and tentatively lets himself into the yard through the gate. Nelson immediately notices him, running away from Washington, tennis ball still in his mouth, to greet John. He drops the ball at John's feet like a gift and weaves between his legs before sitting back and looking up at him expectantly. John manages to get one good scratch behind the ears in before Washington walks over.

"Mr. Laurens," he says in careful greeting.

"Good morning, sir," John says. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

"Nothing, dear!" Mrs. Washington hurries over, wiping her hands on a dishtowel that she drapes over her shoulder. "We were just about to sit down to lunch. Why don't you join us?"

"I really can't," John says. "I have to get Alex soon. I just wanted to come by and talk for a couple minutes."

"Of course," Washington says. "Why don't we go inside?"

John takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Okay," he says, and manages a weak smile.

The kitchen is bright and sunny and quiet. The radio isn't on and Mrs. Washington isn't in the middle of cooking, so it feels much more like it did when John and Alex were dogsitting than it normally does. He puts the last of the doughnuts down on the table and then takes a seat. Washington sits across from him and Mrs. Washington sits between them.

"How are you feeling today?" Mrs. Washington asks as John struggles for words.

"I'm...okay," he says carefully. He glances quickly at Washington and then turns back to Mrs. Washington, forcing himself to add, "It's not...gone...but it's further away. I can be me again. I'm not...drowning."

"That's good to hear," Mrs. Washington says. She covers his hand with her own, squeezing it. "And Mr. Hamilton?"

"Well, he hasn't dumped me." John's aiming for a joke, but it falls a little flat and Mrs. Washington squeezes his hand again. "He's interviewing someone for his blog, I've gotta go pick him up later." And this is as good a segue as he's going to get. "And while he's doing that, I've been going around and...I just want to apologize to you." He looks at Washington. "To both of you. Or...thank you. Or both, I guess."

"There's no need to--" Mrs. Washington starts to say, but Dr. Washington touches her shoulder and she quiets.

"I do," John says. "You trusted us. You relied on us--on me, on me, it's just me, it's not--Alex didn't--" John rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I'm not saying it right."

"Try again," Washington says more gently than John has ever heard him say anything.

John takes a steadying breath and counts slowly to ten in his head, a long-ago instruction from the therapist he saw for a month when he was thirteen, a trick to quiet his mind when it started to pile up on top of him. He thinks about what he needs to say, what he's sorry for, and tries to channel Alex and organize it into a list. He should have made notes before he came over. Alex makes fun of him when he writes himself a script for these things, but it always makes him more confident, even if he doesn't end up using it.

He drops his hands and squares his shoulders and tries again.

"You trusted me. You trusted me to represent you at work and you trusted me to watch your property. You trusted me to conduct myself in a manner becoming of a doctoral student at the best parapsych school in the country. I betrayed that trust by losing my cool, by fighting Lee, by spiraling out of control and not letting anyone or anything stop me." He breathes deeply, in and out, and keeps going. "And I'm sorry. For fighting, for dragging you into my mess, for abandoning a case for you to clean up, for slacking on work and causing issues in the lab. And I honestly...I don't even know how to begin to thank you for everything you've done for us." He makes the mistake of looking at Mrs. Washington, who's very clearly holding back tears. Fuck, but John will be happy when his emotions level out and just the sight of someone crying because of him doesn't make him want to cry as well. He wants to go back to silently tearing up on the rare occasions he lets himself get worked up about something. As it is, the familiar swell of emotion begins to block his throat. "You've been so good to us--to both of us--to Alex, when he needed you, when he needed me and I couldn't...I couldn't...."

He hangs his head, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his forehead to stave off the headache from holding back his tears. That's the worst scar he's going to have to bear after all of this--more than anything that happened physically, more than any argument he got into or insults he slung or fights he picked, he hurt Alex. He crushed him and when Alex needed him, he wasn't there. Alex is his forever, and that means this failure is forever, too.

Mrs. Washington rubs his shoulder soothingly and after a few moments, John gets a hold of himself.

"Sorry," he croaks.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Mrs. Washington says.

"Take all the time you need, son," Washington says. "I've got nowhere to be, and as I'm your boss, you don't have anywhere to be either."

John manages a smile. "You put up with my...my everything. You looked out for Alex, even when he didn't want it. You dealt with us all night on Wednesday and then you cleaned up our mess at that haunting and then you still brought my car home yesterday morning and made us a _quiche_ and brought me _flowers_ and...." He trails off. Alex had the Washingtons bring him sunflowers. Every time he remembers it, something inside of him squeezes so tightly he can't breathe. As if he hadn't already known he was a goner the first time Alex smiled at him. "Thank you," he says. "And I'm sorry. And I'm going to make it up to you--I'm going to do better."

"Oh, honey." There's no stopping Mrs. Washington this time, she stands up and leans over to hug him against her chest. John breathes evenly and fights against sobbing or clinging to her like a child. When she releases him, she strokes his cheek. "We were happy to do it. We're here to help you, always. I can't say we were expecting to adopt you and Alexander once you started hanging around with Gilbert, but you must know by now that we're always here for you."

John rubs his eyes and half-nods. Mrs. Washington tucks some flyaway hair behind his ear and then lets him sit down again. John hesitantly moves his gaze to Washington. Sure, Mrs. W may find forgiveness easy, but Washington is another story altogether. All of these familial entanglements aside, Washington is his boss and John has not been the best employee recently. But Washington is...well, he's not smiling, but there's kindness and compassion on his face and John relaxes, just a little.

"I appreciate your candor about happenings at the lab this summer, but I'm not concerned with that, really," he says. "At the end of the day, the fighting, the casework, the lab work...I'm much more invested in your well-being as a person. I'm much more concerned with how _you_ are. And I'm just happy that things are starting to straighten out for you. I'm happy you're feeling better."

John swallows hard. "Thanks, sir."

"So, you don't need to apologize to me," Washington continues. "There are other people who maybe need it more urgently, if they haven't already gotten one."

"I apologized to Burr," John says. "And Molly and Lieutenant Lincoln. And...." He sighs. "God, I don't know how I can ever make it up to him. I don't know how I can ever make things right after all the different ways I hurt him. Fuck."

He realizes, belatedly, that he's sworn in front of Mrs. W, but when he glances at her, she's not glaring at him, so that's one less thing to worry about, at least.

"Son, that's the marvel of loving someone," Washington says. "There's very little you can do that they won't forgive."

Unbelievably, that's what finally tips John over into tears. He wipes his eyes quickly and harshly and gives Washington a watery laugh. 

"Now," Mrs. W says, stroking her hand over the crown of John's head as she gets to her feet to grab the bag John's left on the table, "what do we have here?"

"Oh!" John wipes his eyes again and clears his throat. "Um, Alex and I went to this new doughnut place in Madison, so, um, apology doughnuts? One of them is salted caramel pretzel, so."

Washington actually grins at that and Mrs. W sighs and hands him the bag, which he digs into. He pulls out the doughnut in question and holds it up triumphantly.

"Thank you," Mrs. W says dryly. "I suppose lunch is delayed, then?"

"The boy brought apology doughnuts, Martha," Washington says earnestly. "It would be rude not to eat them."

Mrs. W rolls her eyes, but squeezes John's shoulder and says, "Thank you, John. It was unnecessary, but we appreciate it."

"You're welcome," John says. As Mrs. Washington snatches the bag back to peer into it, John slides his phone out of his pocket. He thumbs it open and types, _how's it going?_

 _We're just about done,_ Alex sends back almost immediately. _I was about to text you. You read my mind ♥_

_omw in five?_

_See you in twenty, angel._

John feels himself blush. _the goopy nicknames have to stop_

_Okay: See you in twenty, shitshow._

He grins and puts his phone back into his pocket. Both of the Washingtons are looking at him knowingly.

"I'm gonna go get him," John says. "Thank you again. Really."

"That's what family does, young man," Mrs. Washington assures him.

"But don't think that's going to change the level of work I expect from you at the lab!" Washington adds, pointing at him as he rises to his feet and collects his bag.

"I would never," John says, smothering awkward, relieved laughter.

"George," Mrs. Washington says, smacking him as John heads to the door.

"I'm just making sure we're clear on that point!" Washington insists.

John feels lighter as he heads out to the car. He's smiling to himself and he's a million miles away and almost misses Mrs. Washington calling, "John? John!"

He pauses on the front walk, halfway to his car. Mrs. W is chasing him down the path, waving something at him. He realizes, as she approaches, that it's a check.

"John," she says, panting a little. "I nearly forgot." She hands him the check and John does a double take when he sees the amount. "For house-sitting."

"Mrs. Washington...I can't take this," he says. "Not after everything that happened."

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Washington says. "All of that is nonsense. First of all, I think we're long past 'Mrs. Washington.' Please call me Martha. Secondly, nothing that happened is anything to be ashamed of, but it certainly didn't effect your house- and dog-sitting capabilities."

"But...."

"Did you make sure my dogs were fed and exercised every day, at least twice a day?" she asks sternly.

"We did," he agrees.

"Then you fulfilled the terms of our agreement, so I'm fulfilling my end. This is the amount we agreed on, and if you don't take it and cash it, I'll find another way to get it to you, so save us both a lot of trouble."

She glares at him, and he can't argue with that look.

"Yes, ma'am," he says.

She grins triumphantly. "Excellent. Now, go fetch Alexander before he wonders where you've gotten off to."

"Yes, ma'am," he repeats, and folds the check and puts it in his pocket, then rushes the rest of the way to the car, because she's right--this definitely isn't the day to keep Alex waiting on him.

Just as he pulls into the parking lot of the doughnut place, the door opens and Alex walks out with the director, still chatting. John recognizes the look on Alex's face--he's ready for this conversation to be done--and quickly parks and gets out of the car, waving towards them. Alex lights up and a smile blossoms across his face. He walks quickly towards the car and wraps his arms around John's waist before he can even say hello.

"You came back for me," he says. "Thank god." It's quiet enough that the other guy can't hear it, and John snorts.

"That bad?" he asks quietly.

"Never let me agree to something out of guilt ever again," Alex replies. He releases John and then turns back to the other guy. They make some polite smalltalk before saying goodbye, and as soon as the conversation is over, Alex abruptly walks around to the other side of John's car and gets into the passenger seat.

"God, what a fucking condescending jackass prick!" he seethes. "I don't care if he didn't know I was actually Athenodorus, I can't fucking believe I just spent over an hour being para-splained to by an idiot."

"Sorry, baby," John says, wincing. He knows the interview is partially his fault--it was all of the nonsense going on at home that kept Alex from reviewing the film in a timely fashion and instead taking this interview out of guilt.

"Not your fault," Alex says. "Let's just get home."

* * *

They don't go home, in the end--they go to the lab and get some much needed work done all the way through dinner and into the evening. It's already full dark by the time they return to their apartment, opening the door to Upstairs blasting their television. They sigh in unison and John goes to empty his pockets on the island, frowning at a piece of paper folded in one of them.

Right. Mrs. Washington's check.

"What's that?" Alex asks from the fridge.

"Mrs. Washington paid us for house-sitting," John says. "I tried to get her to take it back, but she insisted. It's...not a small amount of money."

"We knew that when we agreed," Alex reminds him. He closes the fridge and walks over to the island, picking up the check.

"I guess I didn't do the math at the time."

Fifteen dollars a day for twenty-two days for each of them. 

"I did the math," Alex says, twisting his fingers in the end of his ponytail. "But with everything else going on, I kind of forgot it was coming."

John wonders how long he's going to trip over all these little consequences of how badly he fucked up this summer. Alex is not the type to lose track of income.

Alex takes his phone out of his pocket and smooths the check out on the countertop. He takes a photo and flips it over to take a photo of the otherside. A few minutes of tooling around on his phone later, and John's buzzes with a message from their budgeting app, alerting him to the fact that $660 has been added to the category labelled "dicking around."

"I think that's the most that's ever been in 'dicking around,'" Alex says, gazing down at his phone. "We should probably put at least a little of it in savings, but fuck it. I can't wait to spend it on bullshit like the impulsive millenial I am. I hope you're ready to spend hours playing _Assassin's Creed_."

"You mean you hope I'm ready to spend hours watching you play _Assassin's Creed_ ," John says, and Alex leans over the island to kiss his cheek.

"I knew you'd understand," he says, and laughs when John swats at him. "Besides, we haven't actually found me any new hobbies yet, so I guess I'm sticking with video games for the time being."

It all feels so deceptively normal, like John isn't a basketcase who came within inches of destroying the most important relationship in his life.

"What about you?" Alex asks. "And don't say anything about getting a fucking dog, I swear to god."

"I wouldn't," John says defensively. Mostly because he can barely take care of himself right now. "And...I don't know. I guess I have to think about it. Maybe some copics? I've been thinking about replacing my camera--I can't use the lab's forever--but the one I'm looking at is a mid-range DSLR and it's still like, five hundred bucks."

"I didn't understand any of that, but whatever makes you happy, gumdrop."

John rolls his eyes. "A digital single-lense reflex camera is the same kind we use at work. Five hundred gets me a decent but not amazing one. Copics are markers."

" _Markers_?"

"A set of twenty-four will run you over a hundred bucks," John says, and Alex whistles.

"See, this is why I don't have hobbies, they're fucking expensive," he says. He grabs a bag of chips from the counter and then comes around into the living room. As he walks past John, he grabs his hand and tugs him towards the couch. "Come on, we gotta watch that asshole's documentary and I think we should make out through the whole thing because fuck him."

John lets himself be pulled. "I could be talked into doing that, I guess."

"'You guess,'" Alex mocks, and they tumble onto the couch, already wrapping around each other.

Although they do make out probably more than most professional critics might deem appropriate, Alex also takes a fuckton of notes, much more critical than he normally is. He googles every statistic and fact and keeps a running tally of how many are incorrect, and sends John up to grab a couple books to check as well.

"Do you even need to watch the rest of this?" John calls from the bedroom. "I feel like you know what you're going to say at this point, and it's not gonna be great."

"I want to be able to say I did if anyone asks," Alex calls back. "Do you have a copy of Collins' diaries? I think mine is on my desk at the lab."

Alex's copy of John Collins' diaries is definitely at the lab, because John has been using it as a reference for their slide deck. He has a copy somewhere, stashed away with other duplicate books that he was too superstitious to throw away when they first moved in together and too lazy to unpack and sort when they were preparing to move in here. He thinks it's in the crumbly old box under their bed, so he leaves the other two titles Alex requested on the bed and kneels down to dig it out as Alex calls out more complaints about the documentary, half-shouting so John can hear them.

The box in question doesn't actually contain the book he's looking for--it's full of old art supplies and sketch books, along with the things that had been hanging on his wall in Cambridge.

At the very top is a painting by his mother, a painting of a sunflower.

He rocks back, dropping from a crouch onto his ass so he can sit more comfortably in front of the box, clutching the painting in his hands. This wasn't even something that was hanging in his room in Cambridge, it goes all the way back to Geneva. He had it over his desk there, just like he had it over his desk in South Carolina. And before it was there, it was one of a dozen canvases his mother had left littered all over her art room when she died. The day of the funeral, John had slipped inside and taken it. He hid it in his closet for a while, for reasons he couldn't quite articulate. He didn't want his father or his siblings to see that he had it. Then one day his father had come in and caught him looking at it. He'd been quiet for a moment and then said, "Let's get you a nail so you can hang that up."

He doesn't want to think about his father right now, about all the ways he let his father down. But here's a piece of his mother that he took when he most needed her strength. Maybe it's time to hang it up again.

Maybe it's time to do more than hang it up.

"Hey, Alex?" he calls absently into the next room.

"Yeah?"

John pushes himself up off the floor and wanders into the living room, staring down at the painting. "You have veto power on this because it's a little more expensive than a video game," he starts, and Alex glances up from the television, eyebrows near his hairline. He doesn't say anything though, so John rushes onward. "I think I want to get another tattoo."

Something in Alex relaxes a little. "Yeah?"

John looks down at the painting and up at Alex again. "Yeah."

Alex smiles. "Cool. Go for it."

Now something in John relaxes a little. "Okay, I'm going to give them a call. Just for a consultation."

In the end, instead of calling, he drives over to the tattoo parlor to talk to someone in person. It's the same tattoo parlor where he got his first tattoo, which was arguably more impulsive, but also much smaller and unobtrusive. He brings his sketchbook and his mother's painting and tries to explain his idea to the artist, who is quickly able to conceptualize it in a sketch. 

"I have an opening on Sunday," she tells him after quoting a price and having him take off his shirt so they can talk about placement.

Sunday is sooner than he expected, but he hesitates for only a moment. "Okay," he says. "Let's do it."

*

When Sunday rolls around, he asks Alex to come with him. The artist had warned him that this process would be much longer and more painful than the five minutes it took the last woman to do the handful of lines and dots on his opposite shoulder. He weighs his desire to surprise Alex with his reluctance to spend hours alone with a stranger at a time when he's genuinely afraid of falling to pieces, and so Alex joins him early on Sunday morning and holds his hand while the artist begins to actualize the tattoo. 

"Does it hurt?" Alex asks about fifteen minutes into the process. John gives him A Look and, based on the way he also glances at the artist, she does as well. "Just making small talk," he mutters.

"Talk to me about what you're writing," John says, and Alex jumps happily into an overview of the theme week he's putting together for the blog. He's enthused and animated and John feels a pang of guilt for sucking that joy from his life this month, distracting him so badly that he couldn't do this for weeks.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the pain of the tattoo gun. It's a fucked up kind of penance, and he knows that, but it's healthier than he's been recently, sick as it is to say.

It takes almost three hours to finish, including the color. He must start to look pretty pale towards the end, because Alex stops talking about work and starts stroking his hair and rambling about the history of parapsych, the way he sometimes does when he's trying to fill an awkward silence.

"We can stop now," the artist says, "but there's probably only about fifteen or twenty minutes left."

"I can take it," John says. The pain is a dull buzz in the back of his head--he's separate from it now, eyes closed, floating somewhere else where he's too distracted to play the highlight reel of his worst crimes. Maybe he should get intricate tattoos more often. 

"It's really beautiful," Alex murmurs to the artist once she's finished.

"I can't take too much credit," she says. "Your guy did the art."

"Half the art," John says. "Mom did the other half."

It's two sunflowers. Together, they're less than the size of his hand, but one of them is lifted from his mother's painting and the other is one of the ones he sketched in the Washingtons' backyard over the summer. He'd considered drawing a new one, a better one, but he's too self-aware to deny that he'd put the tattoo off forever, waiting to get it just right. This way it's done--a reminder of why he's here, where he came from, how he's grown. A reminder of the lessons of this summer, one he needs to get down now, while they're fresh in his mind, before he slides back into the misery that sometimes converges around him like a fog.

"Beautiful," Alex repeats, and kisses his forehead.

*

After paying and tipping and stopping at 7-Eleven so John can chug some orange juice, they meet up with Herc as promised. He's suspicious of their claims that everything is fine, but eventually accepts it. Maybe it's the way Alex won't let go of John's hand or the way John looks him in the eye, but regardless, he's much more relaxed by the time their lunch arrives.

"Rushed all the fuck the way up here for nothing," Herc grouses as he picks up his sandwich, but John hears the relief in his voice.

"We told you it was fine," Alex says. He steals a fry from John's plate.

"Yeah, you've been telling me it's fucking fine all summer," Herc says.

"But it's _really_ fine now," Alex insists. He goes for another fry and John smacks his hand away.

"I mean," John says, trying valiantly to hold Herc's eye contact, "it's fucked up. I'm fucked up. But I'm not like...a danger to myself and others." He tries to laugh at the end, but it falls flat and Alex puts a hand on his knee, squeezing tightly.

Herc stares at him for a minute and then nods. "Good. Don't go anywhere--we need someone to keep Ham in line."

Alex's righteous indignation is, perhaps, a little overplayed in his haste to steer the subject away from John's month of poor choices, but his hand stays on John's knee, warm and grounding and solid.

The rest of Sunday is another boring, mundane day. John revels in it a little, being able to work and breathe and exist without the crushing weight of the world suffocating him. They do paperwork and practice their workshop presentation. John does maintenance on some of the cameras he takes into the field on a regular basis. Alex works on his blog. They leave when the sun is still up and John takes the long way back home so they can watch the sunset. He feels, almost, like they're back in mid-June, carefree and in love and bursting with the promise of the summer. It's not quite right--the quiet hum of anxiety is still lurking under his skin, but it's not that far off, either.

Back at their apartment, as Mr. and Mrs. Upstairs watch a movie with a lot of explosions, John pulls Alex into the bathroom to start cleaning up his tattoo. He's overcome with deja vu--he and Alex were in this exact position after his first tattoo, John leaning over the sink as Alex's fingers gently clean the design with soap and water, then rub in aftercare gel with a look of quiet wonder.

"God, it's really beautiful." He presses a soft kiss over the tattoo. "You're really beautiful." 

John leans back when Alex's arms come around his waist, pulling him close. He closes his eyes and lets Alex nudge his head to the side so he can kiss slowly across his shoulder and up his neck. He shivers.

"Never knew you had a thing for tattoos," John murmurs.

"Neither did I," Alex says against his throat, the words rumbling against his skin and making him suck in a breath between his teeth. "But you're standing here all shirtless, with all of this ink, asking me to sensually rub lotion onto your shoulder...."

"I don't think the word 'sensual' was involved, actually."

John opens his eyes and sees Alex's sharp grin in the mirror. "It was implied." John smiles back, his skin somehow going warm and breaking out into goosebumps at the same time. It just gets worse, or maybe better, when one of Alex's hands slides down from his arm to rest right over his navel.

They haven't had sex in almost a week, which is unusual for them, and even a week ago it was...well, Alex never coerces John, but there are certainly times that John pressures himself into having sex either because he wishes he wanted it more or because he doesn't want Alex to think anything's wrong. Alex would lose it if John told him that--he already lost it once when John mentioned that he'll let Alex seduce him on days his sex drive is absent--but the last time they had sex was definitely a last ditch effort for John to pretend that everything was okay, that he wasn't falling apart. And the time before that....

God, John doesn't remember much about the time before that and it's probably better that way.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back onto Alex's shoulder, pressing into Alex's roving hands and hungry mouth, pressing back against his dick, half-hard and making itself known against John's ass. There is suddenly nothing he wants more in the world than for Alex to fuck him. His breath leaves his body in a woosh and Alex pulls him closer, mouthing at his throat, sucking hard enough that there will definitely be a mark later.

"Yeah, okay," John says, breathless.

"Okay what?" Alex asks, and John turns around in his embrace. He puts his hands on Alex's hips and then changes his mind and slides them up Alex's back, under his shirt, scratching his nails in all the way up and pressing his thigh against the bulge forming in Alex's shorts. "Oh, okay, this is good, I'm into this, I support this turn of events, I--"

"Oh my god, shut up," John says, and then kisses Alex before he can protest.

Alex tries to protest anyway. Of course he does. He's Alexander Hamilton. He keeps talking into John's kiss for a full five seconds and John pulls away, laughing.

"God, you're a fucking smug nerd, you know that?" he says, running his hands from Alex's shoulders to his waist and then back up again.

"I know that," Alex says. "The question is, how have you not noticed that before now?"

This time it's Alex's turn to kiss away John's rebuttal, though John is more willing to be shut up than Alex was. He's also willing to be tugged out of the bathroom and across the hall into the bedroom. Alex pulls off John's belt as they go, dropping it on the floor, and when he gets to the bed, he falls back onto it, John climbing on top of him.

"Fuck, I like looking at you," Alex says, once John's pushed himself up on his elbows over him.

"Yeah, feeling's mutual," John says, and kisses him again.

They kiss for a long time. The urgency is still rippling under John's skin, but the kissing and touching is enough to keep it from crashing over him. 

"What do you want?" Alex asks, breathy and low, flat on his back and pulling John down on top of him.

"I think you should fuck me," John murmurs. 

Alex's eyes open, bright and clear and so, so hot.

"I can do that," he says. One of his hands settles on John's ass and squeezes. "Where do you want to be?"

The deeply enamored, sappy part of John, the part that's been desperate for affection and touch and love these past few weeks, the part he's been purposely starving because he couldn't imagine he deserved any of those things, wants to say, _Right here forever and nowhere else. Right here with you. Always._

John has a lot of experience ignoring that part of him, and he's also aware that was an objectively practical question.

"Not on my back," he says instead. "I don't want to put any pressure on the tattoo, it still stings. Hands and knees?"

Something in Alex seems to hesitate for just a moment, but he nods and John sits up. He tugs Alex up after him by the shirt and then strips it off of him, running his hands over Alex's chest and down to his hips. Alex's body probably isn't objectively sexy--he hates exercise and sunshine, and while he can be vain about his face and his hair and even, in a weird way, what he wears, he's not particularly driven to stay fit. 

Still, John's beyond smitten, so none of that really matters. Alex is a little soft and all elbows and weird angles and all of that softness and those angles get John's dick's attention the moment they're revealed. He immediately pulls Alex against him to kiss him again and Alex smiles against his mouth, sighing when John bends to kiss his throat.

Alex manages to dig out lube and some condoms while John is systematically making his way down Alex's throat and across his shoulders. They've been lazy with condoms since they both had physicals last fall, but anal is messy even when it's not a split second decision, so John appreciates it. And then he's not thinking about anything much at all because Alex has slid out from where John was straddling him and moved behind him, pressed against John from shoulders to knees and slipping his hand into John's shorts without even opening his fly.

"Fuck," John hisses, pressing back against Alex's dick and the warmth of his chest.

"I haven't even done anything yet," Alex murmurs, pleased. John groans and tips his head back onto Alex's shoulder. "Is this gonna go fast? Cause I feel like this is gonna go fast."

"You're such a shit," John huffs, breathless and a little dizzy as Alex's fingers stroke him tight and slow, teasing around the head of his dick, nails dragging against the space between his navel and his cock. He thrusts his hips back against Alex's, his stomach twisting pleasantly at the way Alex's erection is rubbing against him. "Just fuck me, jesus christ, please."

"Patience." Alex says it right in his ear, then leans down and bites his throat, hard. John groans and reaches behind him to sink his hand into Alex's hair and urge him onwards, his other hand fisted in the material of Alex's shorts. "God, I love your body. I love having you like this. I love touching you, I love...."

At first, John barely notices that Alex has trailed off, focused as he is on the biting kisses on his shoulders and neck, on the hand around his dick, on the pads of Alex's fingers rubbing across his chest and pinching his nipples. But the silence continues and John feels a strange vibration against his back as Alex's chest heaves unevenly.

Then he places it. He cranes his neck in an attempt to see Alex's face over his shoulder.

"Are you crying?"

Alex makes a noise in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut. It pushes fresh tears out of his eyes and they roll down his cheeks and then plop onto John's shoulder, fat and wet. John gently disentangles himself, twisting so he can face Alex and brushing the tears from Alex's cheeks as soon as he can reach.

"Baby...." he whispers.

Alex hiccups on a sob. "I missed you so much," he whispers, choked and wet. "Fuck, John, I missed you _so much._ "

 _I didn't go anywhere_ , John wants to say, but he knows that's not entirely true. Instead of talking, he strokes Alex's hair behind his ear and brushes a finger across his damp cheek. Alex takes a long, shuddering breath and then straightens up.

"Fuck," he says. "I'm sorry--shit."

John moves closer to him and then sits back on his heels. "No, it's fine," John says. "We don't have to--"

"No!" Alex grabs John's hand and squeezes it so hard he can feel his bones grinding together. "No, I want to, I just...I love you so much. I love you _so much_." His voice cracks and he hugs John against his chest. His nails bite into John's shoulder blades and the swiftness of the embrace forces the air out of his lungs. He hugs Alex back, feels his shuddering breaths, pets his hair. Alex just squeezes him tighter, like he's trying to press himself into John's skin, merge them into one person. John can't pretend he hasn't had the same impulse some days, days when he's been lying in bed with Alex and holding him hard enough to bruise and wishing that he could absorb Alex's strength and resilience by touch alone.

When Alex does loosen his hold, he frames John's face in his hands. He's still crying, but he stares right into John's eyes.

"I love you so much," Alex repeats. "And I was so fucking scared of losing you and so fucking determined not to show you my fear, to be strong for you because that's what you needed...." They're both quiet for a moment. If Alex wasn't holding John in place, he would have already looked away. "I was afraid I'd never hold you like this again. I was afraid the rest of my life would be walking on fucking eggshells trying to keep you in one piece. And I'm just so fucking glad it's not. I'm so fucking glad that you're okay." He lets go of John to rub at his eyes. "And don't fucking apologize or turn that around into feeling shitty, like this is your fault, okay?"

Alex knows him a little too well. "That's not like...a thing I can control," John says. The guilt is already creeping up on him. His stupidly stubborn, bullheaded, angry Alexander, crying because of John _again_.

Alex grabs his face again and kisses him, hard. It's abrupt enough that it catches John by surprise and his body reacts automatically, leaning into the kiss and opening his mouth. And once he's started kissing, it seems stupid to stop just to yell at Alex for changing the subject.

"Not on your hands and knees," Alex says once he's pulled away. "I need to see your face. I need to see you. I need to know you're here."

There are still tears lingering in the corners of his eyes and John hates that he's done this to them.

"Oh, I see," he says, rustling up a weak attempt at humor. "You just want me to do all the work."

"Always," Alex says, and his smile still isn't exactly as sly and carefree as John would like it to be, but it's a start.

"Lie down," John murmurs, urging Alex onto his back and then leaning over him again. He strokes one hand up and down Alex's side, coming to rest over his stomach. "Here's what we're gonna do: I'm gonna suck your dick for a little bit, because that seems like fun--" Alex snorts and his smile this time is realer, fuller. "--then you're gonna stretch me out a little and I'm gonna ride you. Sound good?"

"Did you just make a sex agenda?" Alex asks, as if he hasn't done way nerdier things in bed. John ignores him and instead pulls off Alex's shorts and then shimmies down until he's lying on his stomach, level with Alex's dick. He's gone a little soft in the last few minutes, so John wastes no time in taking Alex into his mouth and going to work.

At some point in the fog of the last few weeks, Charles Lee taunted John by claiming he sucked dick for fun, and while he was too mad to point out the logical fallacy at the time, he's got plenty of time to think about just how much he does love it now, with one hand pressing Alex's hips to the bed, Alex's cock in his mouth, and Alex's fingers wound tightly in his hair, tugging on every other stroke, just the way that John likes it. He likes the feeling of it, the motion, the weight in his mouth, the sounds that his partner makes, the inherent power dynamics. He likes, especially, doing it to someone he loves and he's never loved anyone nearly as much as Alex. He likes knowing that he can pull Alex to pieces. He likes making Alex incoherent. He likes making Alex beg.

John usually likes making Alex come, too, his body tense in anticipation for the way Alex's whole body will stiffen, the way he'll pull John's hair so hard he almost sees stars. He has to stop before they reach that point today, though--as much as he'd like Alex to come in his mouth, it'll put a damper on Alex fucking him stupid, which is what he's really in the mood for.

So he pulls off too soon, before Alex loses his senses, before they both get too caught up in it. His breathing is ragged and his lips are red and tingling and wet, and Alex is pulling him up to kiss him again before he can recover from any of those things. Alex is a little dazed, a little off-kilter, a little sloppy as he fumbles his hands on John's body. John finally settles onto Alex's lap and takes Alex's fingers in his own, leading them around until they brush up against his ass. He keeps kissing Alex throughout, and once Alex pulls away to try and find the lube and, John imagines, get his wits about him, he moves on to kissing Alex's neck, his collarbones, down his sternum. Alex is breathing hard, but his hands are moving without hesitation, now, one holding John open as a single finger from the other slips inside of him. John shudders at its entrance, suddenly extra aware of his cock pressed between their stomachs and the lack of friction against their sweat-damp skin.

"God," Alex murmurs, his voice rough with desire, "you love getting fucked, don't you? Although, I guess you love fucking, too. You're just kind of a slut, really."

"Nothing wrong with enjoying my body." John aims for the blasé tone he normally takes in this sort of bedroom banter, but he's already short of breath and dizzy as Alex presses a finger against his prostate and rubs back and forth.

"I certainly enjoy it." And something about the tone of Alex's voice, the way he says it, the gravelly pitch, tears a gasp out of John, one that twists into a moan as Alex adds another finger. It's been a little while since John had anything in his ass and there's a burn as the muscles stretch to accomodate Alex's intrusion, but that feels good, too. Or rather, it's uncomfortable, but it keeps him in the moment and the slight discomfort just makes the waves of pleasure sharper. 

He pushes Alex flat on his back once Alex has three fingers pushed all the way into his hole, as far as they can go. He licks one of Alex's nipples, then bites it, then licks away the sting as Alex pulls his fingers apart, twists them, stretches John open with more care than usual and so much desire that his hands keep shaking.

"God," Alex says. "God, you're so _hot_." The hand that had previously been steadying John by the hip slips away so he can palm his own cock, his knuckles bumping clumsily against John's as he tries to maneuver in the small space between their bodies. John groans at the contact and then grabs Alex's wrist and pulls it away. Alex whimpers at the loss of sensation, his gaze shooting up incredulously to John's face.

John just smirks, which is a real feat when his insides feel like jelly and he's barely holding himself back from rutting against Alex's stomach like a teenager on his first date. "We've got an agenda," John says, only a little breathier than usual. He presses himself back against Alex's fingers, which have stilled. "Can't have you coming before I get you where I want you."

"And where's that?" Alex asks and John knows he's only asking because he gets off on John saying it out loud.

"Inside me."

And, yep, Alex's eyes go hazy and he thrusts his hips forward and John decides, finally, that no one's going to get what they want if he doesn't start moving soon. 

He lets go of Alex's wrist and fumbles instead for a condom, which he presses into Alex's free hand. Alex gets the picture and soon enough the latex is rolled down his dick and John is lining it up with his hole, his breath coming out in pants.

Alex is lying beneath him, his whole body frozen with the effort of remaining still, his limbs shaking with the tension. John rests a hand on his chest and lowers himself onto Alex's cock, resisting the urge to slam down hard, trembling as the feeling overtakes him. Every millimeter that Alex pushes into him brings another wave of that heady mixture of pleasure and discomfort, the stretch and fullness that John has been craving. His own dick twitches against his stomach, and he has to close his eyes as he finally seats himself fully, dropping down into the cradle of Alex's hips. Alex's groan rumbles through both of them and his hands settle at John's waist, nails biting into the skin.

"You're so hot," Alex repeats, forcing his eyes open and staring up at John. "Fuck, I love you. _I love you_."

John starts moving at that, raising himself a few inches on his knees before dropping down again, then a few more, then he stops holding back and picks up the pace, desperate for that motion, that fullness, that pressure. They're in an awkward position, and Alex's legs are pinned in a way that makes it difficult to thrust up, but he still manages some movement, snapping his hips upward as John slams downward. John nearly doubles over, balancing himself on his forearms, his face not far from Alex's as they both move in an alternating rhythm. Alex is staring at him, his eyes wide and dark, and the pit of John's stomach twists even further. He can't look away, can't move, even though his dick is throbbing, sliding between their stomach without enough pressure or even friction, desperate for release as Alex fills him up over and over again.

"Fuck!" The word rips out of him, torn from his throat almost against his will. "Alex--shit, Alex, can you--please--"

Alex reads his mind, or maybe feels it in his body--he moves one hand away from John's hip and in between them, grasping John's cock. John almost comes just from that, from the sudden, sure grip, the confidence in which Alex takes hold of him. He shakes and moans and dips his head, but Alex's other hand flies up and grabs his hair, tugging it back hard until Alex can see his face again. It sends them off rhythm, their hips crashing together awkwardly as John's chest heaves and he moans at both the beautiful pain in his scalp and the fierce look in Alex's eyes.

"I have to see you," Alex nearly growls. "I want--" He twists his hips as he thrusts them upwards. "--to see you." 

John's skin feels tight and hot all over. Every nerve is alight, every inch of his body feels aroused and receptive as Alex's skin moves against his, as Alex stares straight into his eyes, as Alex's cock slams into his body.

"I'm going to--probably--" John tries to get the full sentence out, but he gasps again, Alex's grip on his cock suddenly impossibly tighter, so tight it's almost painful. "Fuck, _Alex_!"

"I fucking love you," Alex groans, and it's just another two or three tight, fast, wet strokes and John is coming between them, harder and faster than he intended, losing his rhythm entirely and collapsing onto Alex's chest as his elbow buckles, babbling out nonsense. Luckily, Alex isn't far behind him, his nails digging into John's side as he groans his orgasm so loud that there's no way Upstairs doesn't hear him.

For a few minutes, all John can do is lay there, half on top of Alex, covered with all manner of fluids and fighting to catch his breath. He feels dazed and dizzy, exhausted and euphoric.

He feels _good_.

"You gonna move ever?" Alex eventually mumbles, but his arms have come up around John and he doesn't seem all that eager to let go.

"Maybe," John says.

"That was pretty fucking good," Alex says. "I mean, we're usually pretty good at that shit, but that felt _particularly_ good."

"Mmhm." He kisses Alex's shoulder, and then Alex shifts a little. They both move by inches until they're on their sides, still sticky and gross, sharing a pillow.

"Hey," Alex says with a soft smile.

"Hi," John replies. He reaches out to brush Alex's hair out of his face and then traces down the edge of his jaw. The smile on Alex's face, the calm...god, it's good to see it. After everything, it's good to see it. "You know...." He trails off once he realizes he's not entirely sure what he wants to say. He pauses and thinks and realizes, with a twist of reluctance in his gut, that what he wants to say and what he has to say are two different things.

In this moment of quiet, after sharing such intimacy, John summons the strength to say the second one.

"I'm so sorry, Alexander," he says softly. Alex's brow furrows and he starts to open his mouth, but before he can say anything, John pushes onwards. "I'm sorry I let this happen to us. I'm sorry I couldn't--wouldn't--listen to you. I'm sorry that you tried so hard to help and that you...that you were in so much _pain_ \--"

"John--"

"Sssh." John strokes Alex's cheek. Alex's eyes flutter closed briefly and then open again, focused on John. "Let me finish?" Alex nods. "I'm sorry that I hurt you. And you can blame my dad all you want or my brain or...whatever. But at the end of the day, no matter what caused it...you were hurt because of me. Over and over again." John squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a long breath. He's clinging to the edges of his calm, still, but it could vanish at any moment. He needs to get the rest of this out. "I love you, and I lashed out at you and fought you and ignored you and abandoned you and you deserve so much better than that. And I just--I'm sorry. And I'll try to do better. Because you deserve better--you deserve everything."

When he opens his eyes again, Alex is staring at him, his own eyes glassy and wet. He reaches out and rests his hand against John's cheek.

"You don't have to apologize," he says.

"I do," John says. "I just...I hope you can forgive me. I hope you can trust me again."

"Always." 

The response is a little too quick--John knows from experience and forgiveness and trust aren't automatic, that Alex might think he's forgiven John, might assume he still trusts John, only to be met with lingering doubts the next time the stakes are high. And that's okay--John deserves that, too. But the heart of it? The fact that Alex wants so badly to forgive him, wants so badly to trust him again? The fact that Alex wants _him_ so badly?

That means something.

Alex is the first to give in a few minutes later, groaning and pulling away from John long enough to get a washcloth from the bathroom. They clean up as best they can while moving as little as possible and then pull the sheets and blankets up from the foot of the bed. The idea of pajamas is tempting for a moment, but not as tempting as the idea of closing his eyes.

"Roll over," Alex murmurs before he can drift off, "I want to look at your tattoo again."

John does as he asks, turning most of the way onto his stomach and staring out at the blank wall as Alex's fingers trace over his shoulder. 

"It's beautiful," he says.

"It's itchy as fuck," John says.

"It'll heal soon," Alex says. His fingers trail across John's back to touch his other tattoo, the one he thinks of as Alex's tattoo, though he's too embarrassed to ever say that out loud. His touch is feather-light, his breath warming John's opposite shoulder. His palm smooths across John's shoulder blades and John closes his eyes. "Everything feels so anticlimactic. After all of those weeks of worry and confusion and everything you were going through, to have it be over just like that...it's too easy."

John opens his eyes, turning it over in his mind as Alex twists the little hairs at the nape of his neck between his fingers.

"It wasn't easy," John finally says. "And it's not over. Not really. I'm better, but I'm not _better_. It didn't all magically go away, but there's...distance, now. Space. At least, at the moment."

It's Alex's turn to be quiet. He goes back to rubbing between John's shoulder blades and the silence is thick around them.

"I don't want things to be hard for you," is what Alex finally says.

"I know," John says. "But you can't...you can't love me better, Alexander. It helps, having you. It helps, knowing you're there to catch me, even if it makes me feel guilty, too. But there's only so far you can take me. The rest is...the rest is up to me."

"I would take it all from you if I could." Alex whispers it, like a secret.

John breathes in deeply and squeezes his eyes shut. "I know you would."

The air conditioner hums in the background. Alex's arms slip around his waist, hugging him. He kisses the nape of John's neck.

"My heart," he murmurs. "My star. Don't leave me, please."

"I won't," John manages to say around the lump in his throat.

Miraculously, it doesn't feel like a lie at all.


	18. Epilogue: the same things look different, it's the end of the summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelica has a feeling she's going to like Morristown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many notes at the end! 
> 
> (Also, I am disproportionately annoyed at myself that this comes SO CLOSE to 150k and then misses.)

A Yelp review and Angelica's GPS have led her fifteen minutes away from Eliza's job interview in search of doughnuts. She passes at least two chain places, but it was a photo on instagram from her favorite hipster doughnut place in Troy that sent her on this quest to begin with and Dunkin Donuts just isn't going to do it for her. The place from Yelp isn't too far, and it's a nice drive at ten on a summer morning, not too much traffic and mostly along wooded back roads. 

The doughnut shop is another story altogether. The internet had indicated it was new, but Angelica figured that mid-week, mid-morning it would be quiet enough for her to grab a coffee and a table and get some reading done while she waits for Eliza. That is not the case when she arrives. The parking lot is almost full and the line snakes around the shop. All of the tables are full, as are the stools at the counter against the front windows, though there's still room to stand at the counter if she decides it's worth it to stay.

She gets on line and spends a couple minutes straining to see the menu board and then gives up and accepts she'll have to wait until the next loop to see what's on it, pulling out her phone to dick around on Twitter until then. She finds a feed for the shop and pulls it up, browsing through the pictures, and she's about to click back when it occurs to her that she should add it to her timeline. She's going to live here--it's likely she'll be back.

She wonders when that's going to start sinking in.

When she got the acceptance letter, she actually screamed. She hadn't meant to--she wanted to be calm and chill and reserved and mature, but it was _signed by George Washington_ and it was offering her a place in _his_ lab and she honestly couldn't contain her joy. She clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as it happened, but not fast enough to prevent her mother and father to come running to make sure she was alright. Her father's pride at her announcement erased her mortification at screaming in the first place, and she immediately called Eliza to share the good news.

"Congratulations, Ang!" she said. "I know how badly you wanted this! Oh, I wish I was there to hug you."

"I'll see you soon enough," Angelica promised her. "Your graduation is just around the corner."

She was proud of herself that day for not immediately asking Eliza about her post-graduation plans, despite the fact that her nerves about the future had already kicked into high gear. Eliza's decision to move to Morristown with her was the whole reason she took a year off after finishing her BS, and if Eliza was going to renege on that promise she would have said something. Eliza was good at that.

But everything seems to have worked out, in the end. Angelica got into the grad program of her dreams, Eliza's likely to get a job in Morristown, and, thanks to their parents, they'll have a place to live. In a few weeks, they'll be settling into a whole life down here in New Jersey and Angelica's going to focus on that.

Sort of. Mostly, right now, she's going to be irritated at how slowly this line is moving.

She idly plays a game on her phone as they continue moving forward and _finally_ there's only one person between her and the counter. Well, a couple. A couple with a ridiculously long order. She tuned in and out of their conversation as the line progressed, something about apology doughnuts, and she doesn't know what they did that they need to apologize for, but apparently they did it to a dozen people.

Her phone rings as they continue to order and she picks up as soon as she sees it's Eliza.

"I got the job!" Eliza says before Angelica can even greet her. "They want me to start with the new class that starts after Labor Day. It's actually two half-day classes--morning twos and threes and afternoon fours."

"Congratulations!" Angelica says. "I knew you were going to get it. How could they not want to hire you?"

"Thanks, Ang. I got to see some of the summer camp kids today and they're all so incredibly sweet. I think it's going to be a great first job!"

The couple in front of her is finally finishing their order, squabbling over coffee.

"I'm picking up some doughnuts and coffee, so I probably can't swing back to pick you up for another fifteen or twenty minutes," she says to Eliza. "But I'll be right there when I'm done."

"I can't believe you're spending thirty fucking bucks on doughnuts," one of the guys in front of her says. 

"Well, I've gotta buy back the affection of a lot of people, and you're the only one who will let me suck your dick to do it," the other one says. It makes his boyfriend and the girl at the register laugh, but Angelica just sighs and wills them to finish up faster.

"What's wrong?" Eliza asks.

"Just waiting for a chance to order, still," she says. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Take your time!"

"Congratulations again," Angelica says. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," Eliza says, and Angelica can hear the smile in her voice.

The couple finally clear away and Angelica orders a few doughnuts, a coffee for herself, and a chai latte for Eliza. It takes much longer for everything to be ready to pick up than it should, and she blames the apology couple, who ordered at least a dozen doughnuts and two coffees. When her name is finally called, she takes her things and goes back out to the car to head to Morristown--to head to the new life she'll be starting in just a few weeks.

She can't wait to see what's in store for her here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and keep this brief, but I'm already a little verklempt, so we'll see how it goes.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who took the time to read and comment on this story. Like. I cannot put it into words. This story has taken up 90% of my creative output since this time last year and it has been a long, lonely road getting it set up to post. My brain has not been great, writing has been very difficult at times, and writing a very long, very niche story for a dwindling audience is always stressful. Yes, I've been doing this because I love this universe and these characters and this story, but it's still a little demoralizing to realize you're doing all this work and screaming into a void. So, again, I cannot thank those of you who made it clear that I WASN'T screaming into a void enough. I'm sorry I'm so terrible at responding to comments, but I swear every single one of them has been super important to me.
> 
> Thanks especially to everyone who opened up about their own personal stories in the comments. I can't say I was expecting any of that, but I'm touched that you would be willing to share some of this with me and I'm so glad that this story has helped you ♥
> 
> Thanks also, of course, to my wonderful beta readers. It is exhausting and overwhelming to wrangle a 150,000 word story written out of order over the course of three years, a task made more difficult by my depression-fueled absent-mindedness and forgetfulness. This story would be SO MUCH WORSE without them. There's **azure-lullaby** , who worked on the first part and gave some great insight into things I missed. And **a-classic-fool** who has been SUCH an advocate and cheerleader for this story and so immensely helpful as I've been putting it together. She cannot POSSIBLY know how much her interest and enthusiasm has meant to me along the way. Same goes for **weesaw** , who was not even into _Hamilton_ when I started writing this verse and who has been pulled in and let me talk to her about these characters SO MUCH and helped me develop stories and plotlines SO MUCH and has patiently sat and listened to me talk SO MUCH.
> 
> A few people have pointed out that I started posting my playlist for this fic last summer and then tapered off, and someone else asked about the songs used to title chapters, so I've got two playlists for you, with the forever caveat that I'm a nerd who listens to folk pop and folk rock and while this is my personal playlist, it would NOT be what the characters were listening to and also is not really in the spirit of the musical's influences.  
> The first is just a list of all the songs used to title the chapters, in order. It sort of sets a mood for the story, from the good parts to the bad parts, without a narrative throughline:  
> [everyone must breathe until their dying breath playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFiKsTEnM2N8zAmcshMxJWr37SqxZ4_k5)  
> And this one is the playlist that follows the character's narrative arc through the rougher parts of this fic:  
> [the sounds of everyone's shitty summer](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFiKsTEnM2N-kaRCd8d-XLAZ_jsXHeclx)
> 
> Finally, what's next! In theory, I'm going to take a break to work on my novel and also try and write a full version of the #fem4ham story I sketched out on tumblr. I have large swathes of the next story written, but a lot of it needs to be edited because the characters have shifted somewhat since I started writing this verse. My hope is to have it done within the next year, but who knows. The next story will fully introduce Eliza and Angelica and will set up some major worldbuilding, as well as set off some relationship shifts. (JOHN AND ALEX ARE NOT BREAKING UP AND NO ONE IS CHEATING ON ANYONE ELSE. I cannot stress this often enough.) In the meantime, you can follow me on tumblr at [@fourteenacross](http://fourteenacross.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thank you, again, from the bottom of my heart, for sticking with this for so long, friends ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again, guys--updates will begin in earnest next week!


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